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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26721364">Inside Here (The Worst Things Come)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/pseuds/orphan'>orphan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>And All Tomorrows... [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Pacific Rim (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Additional Warnings In Author's Note, M/M, Not quite a fix-it, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), Precursor Emissary Newton Geiszler, more like a kintsugi-it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:20:13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>79,250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26721364</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan/pseuds/orphan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Three months, five days, and sixteen hours since the Tokyo Incident and Hermann is sitting white-knuckled in a cold, austere office, being told that, contra what he’d originally been lead to believe, the body of one Newton Geiszler is still alive.</em>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>And All Tomorrows... [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974673</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>184</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>76</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. “We owe you dinner. We’re going to collect.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>... so I read a bunch of post-<em>Uprising</em> fics and had An Idea and then this happened. Um. Oops.</p><p>As a <strong>general disclaimer</strong> this fic is basically, like, the bastard offspring of <em>Ten Years, Two Weeks</em>, <em>This Heart, Pulled Apart</em> and <em>Muckraker!</em>. Because, lol. Tropes. For those who got mad at the latter in particular for being "too issueficcy" this is <em>definitely</em> not the work for you, as it's if anything even more opinionated on issues including, but not necessarily limited to: hyper-capitalism, the military industrial complex, the rule of law, "extraordinary rendition", American foreign policy, Chinese economic policy, tech daddies and mommies, the one percent, intellectual property law, the use of children in the military, transhumanism, conspicuous consumption, and whether or not Dom Pérignon is the McDonald's of vintage champagnes (spoiler alert: it is).</p><p>It also pretty intentionally pushes back on most of the conventional post-<em>Uprising</em> recovery fic tropes for <a href="https://orphaned.monster/dat/the-worse-things/">(Spoilery) Reasons</a> and in ways that will Not Be Everyone's Bag, Baby. I wouldn't necessarily say this is a "dark" take per se, but it is a lot more... ambiguous? Than most other similar fics. So... there's that.</p><p>So, like. For the one of you that's left after all that... enjoy?</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Content warning</strong> for references to torture and Hermann having a mild panic attack.</p><p>
  <em>The scale of destruction / You feel guilty and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QR4Hjx7-QKw">know who to blame</a>.</em>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div><p class="p1"><a></a>“It wants to speak with you.”</p><p class="p1">Three months, five days, and sixteen hours since the Tokyo Incident and Hermann is sitting white-knuckled in a cold, austere office, being told that, contra what he’d originally been lead to believe, the body of one Newton Geiszler is still alive.</p><p class="p1">“You told me he was <em>dead</em>.” Hermann has been repeating this for at least ten minutes. He feels like his heart stopped at five. Or maybe started again, for the first time in nearly a decade. It’s hard to say.</p><p class="p1">“Jury’s still out.”</p><p class="p1">The new Marshal’s name is Jonathan Stone, sent direct from the tattered remains of the Security Council. Allegedly an American general, though his accent and bearing suggest otherwise and if he hasn’t been express posted straight out of some dark intelligence service Hermann will eat his cane. As soon as he can remember how to move his limbs.</p><p class="p1">Newton is alive. Hermann can <em>see</em> him; the video feed is live, supposedly, taken from the ceiling in the cell Newton is being held in. The man himself is sitting, unnervingly still, on the hard cot bolted to the room’s wall. The cot and a vicious, stomach-curling toilet-cum-sink are the room’s only amenities. The former has no blanket and the latter no privacy. Everything is hard-edged and dingy grey. Hermann feels sick.</p><p class="p1">“Three months,” Stone is saying, “it wouldn’t say shit, no matter what HUMINT tried on it. Just laughed at the techs. Got it to scream once or twice, too. Nothing coherent.”</p><p class="p1">“Verschärfte Vernehmung.” Hermann’s fingers are clenched so tightly around the head of his cane he isn’t sure he’ll ever be able to remove them.</p><p class="p1">“‘Bout two weeks ago,” Stone continues, as if Hermann hadn’t spoken, “it asked to see you. Clammed right the fuck back up again afterwards. Now, personally, I think the last fucking thing we should be doing is giving that insane sack of shit what it wants, but Jessen went over my head and Sec-C agreed.” He shrugs, as if they’re just . . . just discussing the food in the DFAC. Not a man’s <em>life</em>. “They’re pushing hard for the C-O and think it might be able to tell us something about how the fuck we’re gonna go about that, exactly, without getting our fucking asses handed to us. Hence the recall. If you can get us anything, anything at all . . .” Another shrug.</p><p class="p1">Sabbatical. Hermann had been back in London. <em>Resting</em>. It’d been the formal recommendation from the psych the PPDC had made him see after . . . After. Now, he wonders how much of it really was for his own benefit and how much was just to get him out of the ‘Dome.</p><p class="p1">Newton hasn’t so much has twitched, the entire time Hermann’s been watching him. The video may as well be a static image. Maybe it is. Maybe that would be better. Newt couldn’t even <em>sleep</em> keeping still, let alone do so in his waking hours. Hermann’s never known him to—</p><p class="p1">Well. Maybe that’s entirely the problem, isn’t it? Nowadays, there’s a lot of things Hermann apparently doesn’t know about Newton.</p><p class="p1">He wants to scream.</p><p class="p1">Somehow, what he says instead is:</p><p class="p1">“I understand.”</p><p class="p1">“You’ll do it?”</p><p class="p1">“I’m not really in a position to say no, am I?”</p><p class="p1">“Not even a little bit,” Stone says, all shark-sharp smile and dead-ice gaze.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>The cell is bigger than it looks, but barely; bifurcated by an ominously thick pane of glass, just below the view of the camera Hermann had been watching. Hermann’s side of the glass is maybe a quarter of the room’s true length. He had to pass through a man-trap to get here, and there’s a room of guards and oily, dead-eyed interrogators on the other side. The glass has a little drawer to pass things through and little mesh holes for air and sound. It feels excruciatingly <em>Silence of the Lambs</em>.</p><p class="p1">“Holy shit they actually sent you. Was starting to think you’d died, man.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann does not flinch. Just walks to the centre of his side of the room, comes to a halt about an arm’s length from the glass.</p><p class="p1">Newton—the thing in Newton’s body, talking with Newton’s voice—stands as well. It moves into a mirror of Hermann’s position, alien and coiled and oily smooth, head tilted slightly as it regards him. Like it’s Hermann who’s trapped and caged; a curious specimen, being catalogued for study.</p><p class="p1">“Sorry for the whole, pfft”—Newton makes a vague gesture with both arms—“<em>Hannibal</em> shtick. Not exactly how we figured this would go.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann does not flinch. Hermann does not give any reaction at all. Just because they’d apparently had the same thought, after all this time—</p><p class="p1">“I want to speak to Newt,” he says. Once upon a time, in another life, Hermann had been very, very good at keeping himself . . . inside. A weapon and a prison and a shield, all in one. Crumbled and eroded over the last decade, maybe, but it’s easier to fall back into it than he’d feared. Always was, when faced with the man in front of him.</p><p class="p1">Another vague gesture, maybe half of something like a smirk. “Speaking.”</p><p class="p1">He looks . . . thin. Gaunt and pale, hair too-lank and too-long, half a beard grown out on his cheeks. He’s wearing a stained grey coverall, sleeves rolled up and unbuttoned at the collar enough that Hermann can see the angry red scabs and greenish-purple bruising, even beneath the riotous, snarling tattoos.</p><p class="p1">Three months. Three <em>months</em>.</p><p class="p1">Out loud he says:</p><p class="p1">“No. Not . . . you. I will not speak with <em>you</em>. Not until I’ve spoken to him. Like before.”</p><p class="p1">Newton sucks a hissing breath in through its teeth, glancing up at the ceiling like Hermann’s delivered him a physical blow. “Ooh. Too late for that, Herminator. At least . . . shit. How long has it been? They keep doing shit with the lights and drugging us to lose time.” It looks at Hermann, expecting an answer, and when it doesn’t get one: “Too late either way. First . . . month? Yeah, maybe. But in between the beatings and the drownings we’ve had a lot of time alone upstairs, you know. Lotta time to— to rip up that ol’ tape line. Get in some real quality compatibility.” He’s getting more animated as he talks, arms gesturing, pacing. The voice is still . . . wrong, cold and harsh, but the effect is nonetheless so familiar Hermann suddenly and viscerally understands what is meant by the uncanny valley. Something human-but-not.</p><p class="p1">“He thought about you,” Newton adds. “All the fucking time. For a while we were worried it was some kind of . . . of mind control ray. Crazy, right?”</p><p class="p1">“I think you’ll find that’s more your species’ style.” Hermann’s shocked the words don’t spit out as Kaiju Blue, splattering against the concrete and glass and eating away at both.</p><p class="p1">“Touché. But we can see why you never bothered to develop the tech, when you can just do this to each other naturally. Seeing you <em>really</em> did a number on him, man. Ten fucking years to get you outta this rotting sack of meat, all undone, just like that.” He snaps his fingers, loud and sharp. “He kept... kept fantasizing you were gonna come burst in that fucking door, drag us outta here. Dreamt it so vivid sometimes it took us a while to figure out it hadn’t happened. Crazy, what your meat puts you through. We don’t know what was worse; those dreams, or the ones he started getting near the end, imagining you’d been right behind that wall the entire time. Watching.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann will not weep. Not in front of this . . . thing. Nor will he believe any of its lies, nor will he give up the hope it so obviously wants him too. So he is proud of the calm, flat way he says:</p><p class="p1">“They told me he was dead and sent me away to keep me from learning otherwise. I only received information to the contrary an hour ago.”</p><p class="p1">Newton stops pacing, looks at Hermann, head tilted and something like a smile on its lips. “ . . . huh,” it says. “Go figure. All this fucking time and apparently all we ever had to do was just fucking ask.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann <em>loathes</em> it. He does not believe for one second that Newt is gone and he vows, staring into cold, alien eyes that he will do anything, <em>anything</em>, to see the man’s return.</p><p class="p1">“Why did you ask?” he says.</p><p class="p1">Newton shrugs, resumes pacing. “Guess they ran outta ideas for cute fun rendition dates, sent in the fuckin’ intern instead. Told us they want what’s up here”—a tap against his temple—“and asked what we wanted in return. We gave her a list.”</p><p class="p1">“And I was on it.”</p><p class="p1">Newton steps right up to the glass, finger against the surface and pointed straight at Hermann. “We owe you dinner. We’re going to collect.” He grins, unhinged and razor-edged, cold eyes searching Hermann’s. Hermann makes himself return that piercing, alien stare. Limbs locked to hold back the shakes, the feel of alien claws, stroking up and down his spine.</p><p class="p1">Newton’s pupils are black pits, gaping maws, blown open at the bottom of the blue-green ocean, nothing but death and madness beneath. Hermann is falling. Stood at the edge of that awful void, nowhere to go but down and no weapon but the delusional spark of hope that there is something, anything, to be found at the bottom.</p><p class="p1">And then Newton blinks, and steps back, and the spell is broken. Hermann’s heart is racing and his hands are slick against the handle of his cane and he tells himself the flash of . . . something he sees cross Newton’s face is real. Human. Half a heartbeat, no more, before the mask of cold, alien mania slams down once more.</p><p class="p1">“After that,” Newton is saying, stepping back from the glass, waving a dismissive hand. “After that I’ll tell all these other little parasites whatever it is they think they want to know.” He stalks back to his cot, throwing himself down onto it in a splay of too-thin limbs. “So whatcha say, Herms; one little date to save the world? You can even scream at me the whole time, if you want. It’ll be like old times.”</p><p class="p1">No. No it won’t be. Not even a little. Nothing will ever, <em>ever</em> be like “old times” again.</p><p class="p1">Out loud, Hermann says:</p><p class="p1">“Yes. All right.” As if there was ever any other answer he could give.</p><p class="p1">He tells himself it’s not surprise he sees cross Newton’s face in response. Not surprise, not joy, and definitely not hope.</p><p class="p1">Hermann makes it all the way back to his quarters before he screams and screams and screams until he pukes.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>“Three <em>months</em>.” More Kaiju Blue words, dripping and toxic. “Three months you watched this happen.”</p><p class="p1">Later, in Medical. Hermann has a roiling stomach and a pounding head and he’s not here for himself. He’s here for Newt.</p><p class="p1">They have been drugging him; that, at least, had been the truth. Taking him here, running tests. Scans. Taking blood and tissue, trying to determine how deep the corruption runs.</p><p class="p1">He’s human, at least physically. That’s not the problem. The problem is this; three months of brain activity, projected in light, a fragile constellation of blue slowly obliterated by vicious, alien red.</p><p class="p1">No evidence of human brain activity for a month, at least.</p><p class="p1">“Ten <em>years</em>,” Hermann is saying. “He fought this for a decade and you obliterated it in two months. This is malpractice!” The only reason he hasn’t been sick is there’s nothing left for him to lose.</p><p class="p1">The neurologist, Doctor Ogawa, is new. Another one of the contracted legions that descended in their new Marshal’s wake. “My cousin died in Tokyo,” she says.</p><p class="p1">“Of course.” Hermann can’t help the snarled words. They’re not even for Ogawa, not really. They’re for such an obvious, callous ploy. For the kind of monsters who’d deliberately recruit people with a grudge to sign off on the care of the target of their ire.</p><p class="p1">“This stops,” he says. “Right now. You do not so much as <em>look</em> at Doctor Geiszler in future unless I am there to approve and supervise.”</p><p class="p1">Ogawa’s eyes narrow, arms crossing over her chest. “You don’t have that authority.”</p><p class="p1">“I am the director of K-Science!” Too loud, too shrill. Hermann forces his mouth shut, takes a deep breath through his nose. Cold and calm as a winter’s morning. “I think you’ll find, <em>doctor</em>, that the handling of extraterrestrial materials is exclusively under <em>my</em> purview. That includes Doctor Geiszler. You people have already done enough damage with your incompetence. I will not see you do more.”</p><p class="p1">“We did what we had to.”</p><p class="p1">“What you <em>did</em>, Doctor Ogawa, was, at best, the torture of a prisoner of war. At worst, you murdered a man to do it. Either way, I will remind you we are still at war, and this”—he gestures at the sickening red-blue lights—“may have jeopardized the entire endeavor. Pray, for your own sake, it isn’t so.”</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>“Hey, mate. How . . . how you holding up?”</p><p class="p1">Later. Hermann has collected every record of Newton’s imprisonment he can access and has been going through them all in a sickening, roiling horror. Maybe more for the long blocks of redacted text than the words they will let him see.</p><p class="p1">“Did you know?” His voice is a rasp. From screaming, from the way he’s had his teeth clenched for so long it’s hard to pry them apart.</p><p class="p1">In the doorway of Hermann’s office, Pentecost shifts awkwardly. “Look, I—”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Did you know</em>?” Hermann has had enough lies, enough prevarications, enough pity. Especially that. Like there’s a kaiju, roaring just beneath his skin, ready to burst forth and devour this entire rotten base.</p><p class="p1">“Yeah,” says Pentecost. “We knew. Marshal said it was better to . . . give you some space, y’know?”</p><p class="p1">“They <em>tortured</em> him. Did you know <em>that</em>?”</p><p class="p1">From Pentecost’s expression Hermann thinks he did, in fact, not know that. It’s only a flicker, swallowed down physically behind a grinding jaw. Eventually:</p><p class="p1">“He killed my sister.”</p><p class="p1">“Get out.”</p><p class="p1">“Look—”</p><p class="p1"><em>“I said get out!”</em> The mug goes sailing across the office, shattering against the wall in a burst of lukewarm, too-milky, too-sweet tea. Not even close to its target but, when the rage recedes enough for Hermann’s vision to return, Pentecost is gone.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>“Whoa, dude. You look like shit.”</p><p class="p1">A little over twenty four hours later, though it feels like a decade. The night of Hermann’s “date”. He’s come straight from his office—is running late, in fact—and feels the fool the second he steps into the room.</p><p class="p1">He isn’t sure what he was expecting this night to be. Hasn’t really thought about it, truth be told; hasn’t allowed himself to think about it. Not between reading and throwing up and screaming at anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. He should have. Should have remembered the only reason he’s allowed here at all, whoring himself out to a monster to try and scrape whatever crumbs of intel he can from its warped, stolen mind. At the very least he should have dressed up.</p><p class="p1">Newton has. Lord only knows how he managed it, but he’s back in one of his own suits, washed and groomed. He looks good and nothing like himself and Hermann hates it. Hates the white tablecloth and the bottle of wine and the neat lines of elegant silverware and the sodding 4hero playing softly on a portable speaker. Bollocks.</p><p class="p1">And Newton, watching him with an unreadable expression, head slightly tilted, waiting for some kind of reaction.</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t sleep well,” Hermann finally says.</p><p class="p1">Newton makes an odd little disappointed <em>tsk</em>. “Jetlag?”</p><p class="p1">Not unreasonable; Hermann loathes flying, as Newt well knows. Hermann could nod his head and he doubts it would be questioned. Could, but . . .</p><p class="p1">“Yesterday I found out my dearest friend, whom I thought dead, has instead spent the last three months being tortured by outsiders apparently intent on turning my <em>home</em> into some kind of black site rendition centre. So you’ll have to excuse me if I’m not feeling entirely my best.”</p><p class="p1">“Wow, man. This is really tearing you up, huh?” Then, when Hermann has no answer to that: “Look, w— I wouldn’t get your stuffy granny panties in a twist over it.” Newton raises a hand, studying the flex of his fingers, chain rattling where he’s been cuffed to the chair. “It’s kinda hard to care what happens to the meat nowadays and the problem with human psychology is it only works on human brains, so . . . hey. We’re golden.” The worst part, Hermann thinks, is that as far as he can tell, Newton means this quite sincerely. Is legitimately trying to comfort him, in his own way. “Anyway, c’mon man. Sit. I’m feeling kinda loomed over and, well.” He rattles a manacle for emphasis.</p><p class="p1">Hermann nods, just once, and forces himself to approach the table, step by painful step.</p><p class="p1">“Wine?” Newton asks, when Hermann is seated. “Did you know the PPDC raided our apartment? Apparently they’ve got the whole damn thing packed away in the basement and have been drinking through the wine collection. Managed to save a bottle of Château Margaux and, hey. If there’s anything down there you want, go nuts; better you than anything else in here.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann knows this, about Newton’s possessions. Had been the one to arrange their transport, in fact, prior to his . . . sabbatical. Mostly to try and stop Shao getting there first.</p><p class="p1">He still has nightmares about what they found inside. And not just “Alice.”</p><p class="p1">The wine is open and breathing on the table and Hermann pours himself a glass. He thinks he’s going to need it. Then offers to same to Newton.</p><p class="p1">“Nah, man. Figure if nothing else this is a great opportunity to jump on the ol’ wagon. Was getting a bit messy there, at the end. Plus, y’know. Being strapped to a chair’s not real great for having to get up and piss halfway through dinner.”</p><p class="p1">Newt rarely drank. Hermann tries not to think about it, tries not to think of how the color of the wine looks like the red of an alien EEG, slowly obliterating the blue.</p><p class="p1">“Is there anything you need?” he asks instead. “From your things. Glasses?” Newton hasn’t been squinting but none of his body language has been quite right and Hermann does not read into it. It’s possible the . . . thing inside him simply doesn’t know any better.</p><p class="p1">Except Newton just laughs, jagged and shrill. “Aw, dude. Fixed the meat’s eyes years ago. And we’re guessing this offer is not unconditional, huh?”</p><p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “Personal effects only. No technology. Nothing . . . alien.”</p><p class="p1">He gets another one of those strange, inscrutable looks. “How <em>is</em> Alice nowadays?” Then, before Hermann can answer, almost like Newton’s cutting <em>himself</em> off: “My guitar.”</p><p class="p1">“I said no—”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Acoustic</em> guitar, dude, relax. Unless you’re worried we’re gonna built a death ray out of the wires.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Or a garrotte</em>, Hermann doesn’t say. Newton’s bed is devoid of blankets for more reasons than one.</p><p class="p1">“All right, then. Yes. Your guitar.” A guitar is . . . good, surely? Hermann had found a stash of old instruments in the back of a cupboard, dusty and obviously long-unused. If Newton wants to play again . . .</p><p class="p1">“Haven’t played in years,” Newton says, and Hermann tries not to betray how unnerved he feels to have his thoughts spoken aloud. He reminds himself Newton is watching him closely, and Newt had known him better than anyone else on the planet. It’s nothing stranger or more sinister than that. “Got too difficult with the whole”—Newton gestures at his head again, snapping his fingers on one side then the other—“thing going on. And we don’t have music back home, go figure.”</p><p class="p1">“In . . . in the Anteverse?” He has to remember who, <em>what</em>, he’s talking to. Has to remember why he’s here.</p><p class="p1">“Crazy, right? Such a human thing, music. Could never get used to it. Felt so—” Another vague gesture. “But <em>he</em> loved it. So figure it’s worth another shot. You know they tried blasting us with it? Keep us awake or . . . some shit, whatever. For a moment it was like, uh oh. Might’ve been the one thing that worked, right? ‘Cept the song starts playing and it’s like, hey. Pacific Death Party. Fuckin’ <em>love</em> these guys. Made sure to look extra pissed off so they’d keep playing it. Worked for three whole days; was able to count that one from the track length.” And he laughs.</p><p class="p1">This is . . . Hermann doesn’t know <em>what</em> this is. Not what he was expecting, definitely.</p><p class="p1">Which is maybe why he blurts: “Three months. It’s, ah. You’ve been here three months. August twelfth.”</p><p class="p1">“Aw. Missed your birthday.” Hermann tells himself he’s imagining the gratitude. Surely this . . . thing can’t feel it. Surely.</p><p class="p1">His glass is half empty and he’s exhausted and none of this is going how he’d planned, which is definitely why he says: “I’ll have another.”</p><p class="p1">But there’s no reason, no reason at all, for Newton to look at him with such warmth and such pain and say:</p><p class="p1">“<em>You</em> will, yeah.”</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>Dinner is shocking good; apparently Stone approved the use of the caterers the ‘Dome engages for visiting dignitaries, and they certainly live up to their purpose. <em>Last meal for a dead man,</em> Newton calls it, far too cheerfully, even as he picks at his food and confesses he’s out of the habit of eating it (<em>it’s so inefficient, dude, and pretty gross when you think about it</em>).</p><p class="p1">For someone who’s spent the last twenty four hours nauseous and vomiting, Hermann finds his appetite comes back with a vengeance somewhere between the stuffed zucchini flowers and the scallops. The wine is truly extraordinary—a pre-War vintage he doesn’t even want to consider the cost of—and he drinks far too much of it. He talks very little but, as always with Newt, it doesn’t seem to matter; Newton fills in the space with all the noise of a man who’s spent the last three months in silence. He makes no attempt to hide what he is or where or why, but keeps the conversation light enough and is confident and even charming in his own way, making no secret of the fact he’s pleased with Hermann’s presence and asking nothing from him beyond it. And, so help him, but Hermann <em>gets it</em>. Gets how Newt could have been seduced by this, by <em>being</em> this; a version of himself half a step to the left, rugged edges smoothed down to sharp-cut diamond, beautiful and lifeless and cold.</p><p class="p1">It is nothing Hermann expected, and everything he feared. It’s not a violent, maniacal monster. It’s not a shrieking, inhuman alien. It’s not even the version of Newton that closed its fingers around Hermann’s throat. It’s worse than all of those combined, an EEG washed in Bordeaux crimson; it’s catching up with an old friend, changed by time and circumstance yet so, so achingly familiar.</p><p class="p1">Lord, Hermann’s missed this. The last ten years have felt like half his soul, torn from his body, and finally, <em>finally</em> here it is. Or something close enough to it. And Newton is telling some ridiculous story about some conference three years ago, about walking into a room with Liwen Shao, armed with a slide deck and expecting a presentation and:</p><p class="p1">“—the whole fucking room is, like, the entire board dressed up in sequined dresses and rain boots, making weird little hip thrusts with these dour fucking expressions. And like they see us and fucking <em>freeze</em>, and Shao just loses her fucking shit, what the fuck is this, blah blah blah, and so it’s up to the fucking VP of Asia-fucking-Pacific to meekly peek up from under his glitter wig and he’s like, ‘Sorry. I thought they told you about the—‘“</p><p class="p1">“German schparkle party.” Hermann blurts it out, accent and all, laughing so hard his face hurts and his glass is filled with the last of the wine and he hasn’t been this drunk in years, hasn’t <em>felt</em> like this in a decade, and the room is spinning and the music has looped three times and oh Lord he <em>can’t stop</em> he’s laughing and laughing and he can’t stop and it feels like his throat is filled with diamonds, like every hiccuping cough is choking another onto the table, clattering into the tarte Tatin, splashing against the silverware, high pitched and hysterical and he <em>can’t stop</em> and—</p><p class="p1">“Breathe, Hermann. C’mon, with me. In. Two. Three. Out. Two. Three. It’ll be okay, dude. Out. Two. Three—”</p><p class="p1">“Oh L-Lord,” Hermann is choking. Through the sobbing, the hiccoughing laughter. His heart is racing and the room is spinning and he feels sick and he’s put his hand right in his pudding. But Newton is still speaking, slow and hypnotic, and slowly—so, so slowly—Hermann gets himself under control.</p><p class="p1">“I-I’m sorry,” he tells the tablecloth, when he can. He’s still hunched over, one hand braced against the tabletop, the other, sticky and sweet-smelling, open in front of him. “I’m sorry, I—”</p><p class="p1">And Newton says:</p><p class="p1">“You still keep your little nerdbook in your breast pocket?” Completely casually, like Hermann hasn’t just . . . hasn’t . . .</p><p class="p1">He looks up, startled, to meet that strange, unblinking stare. Expecting disgust, maybe, or contempt. He isn’t sure how to deal with what he finds instead; a bland, closed-off impassivity.</p><p class="p1">A bland, closed-off impassivity that knows him, and he pulls his little notebook and its little attached pen from his jacket pocket.</p><p class="p1">Newton gestures for him to pass it over, and he does so, cautious of the reach on Newton’s cuffs. (Newton’s cutlery is plastic, unlike Hermann’s, but a part of him can’t help imagine the feel of a broken shard of plate, jammed through his hand.)</p><p class="p1">“Go home, Hermann,” Newton says, when he has the notebook. “Get some sleep. They’ll have what they want by morning.” Then he picks up the pen, opens the notebook to a fresh page, and starts writing.</p><p class="p1">It’s a good enough dismissal as any, and Hermann stumbles to his feet, reeling, and lurches from the room as fast as his twisted flesh and broken heart will take him.</p></div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>Honestly, I thought that I would be <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HUHC9tYz8ik">dead by now</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. “Started writing once you left, and didn’t stop until it was out of paper.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>The next day, Hermann wakes up far too early with a raging hangover, a queasy stomach, and a burning sense of purpose. He downs far more pills than is probably reasonable, showers, dresses, and storms his way down to the storage room filled with the remains of Newton’s apartment.</p>
  <p class="p1">Three months ago he left this room in meticulous order. Today, it looks like it’s been the victim of an extremely small, extremely localized, kaiju attack. Newton was correct about the wine, which has apparently been joined on its jaunt elsewhere by most of the artwork, one Persian rug, several shoes and belts, a pair of sunglasses, an MIT hoodie, all consumer technology, half the kitchen, and every single instrument including the piano Hermann knows used to belong to Newton’s grandfather.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann is <em>furious</em>. He makes this known, loudly, to the two hapless, early rising lackeys in Property and Facilities when he storms in there, inventory clipboard in hand.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Those items are being held by the PPDC in trust on behalf of a grieving family,” he snarls at a boy who can’t be more than twenty-nothing. “I expect the guitar to be returned to my office within forty eight hours and there will be no questions. Everything else has a week. If anyone finds themselves suddenly unable to locate any <em>irreplaceable</em> bottles of twenty thousand yuan alcohol—and keep in mind I <em>recorded the volumes</em>—then they may come forward and have their salaries docked for the current market cost. At the end of the week anything still missing will be treated as <em>theft of Corps property do I make myself clear</em>?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, shit,” says the boy.</p>
  <p class="p1">After that, Hermann goes to see the Marshal. He’s in such high dudgeon he’s surprised he’s not generating his own weather patterns, and there is definitely a non-zero amount of frantic leaping aside as he passes. He certainly doesn’t take vicious pleasure from it. That would be crass.</p>
  <p class="p1">He also does not knock on Stone’s door, simply storms in. Which is how he comes face to startled face with Liwen Shao.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Gottlieb,” she says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“What is she doing here?” Hermann’s startled, more than anything else. He shouldn’t be so harsh, perhaps, but Stone just raises a too-pale eyebrow and says: “Hermann. Since you’re here, you may as well be in on this, too.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s notebook is sitting in the middle of Stone’s desk, flipped open to a page of Newton’s too-familiar—and apparently still completely incomprehensible—scrawl.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s a chair next to Shao and Hermann sits, heavily enough to jar his hip, feeling the fight leave him like a blow. “What—” is all he manages to get out.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Started writing once you left,” Stone explains, “and didn’t stop until it was out of paper. Chucked it in the drawer then passed out.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We are, ah. Having trouble with the handwriting,” Shao confesses. Hermann should not blame her. He knows this. But, Lord help him, he <em>does</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">Ten years. She should’ve known. Should’ve noticed something.</p>
  <p class="p1">(<em>Was too profitable for her to not,</em> whispers a dark little voice. Once that sounds like Newt.)</p>
  <p class="p1">“Give it to me,” Hermann snaps, taking the notebook. He flicks through it. “Full schematics for the mechanism to open a Breach,” he says after a moment. “Plus environmental and topographical information on the Anteverse.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You can read it?” asks Stone.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sniffs. “Of course.” He does not think of a box of faded letters, carefully stored and far too-often thumbed. Or of the counterpart he’d recovered from Newton’s apartment, dusty and forgotten, but there all the same.</p>
  <p class="p1">“And these?” Shao takes the book, flicking several pages. “What are these?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Around every half dozen pages—sometimes more, sometimes less—is a page of . . . Honestly, Hermann has no idea what it’s a page of. Abstract art is the nearest he can compare it to; paper bisected down the centre, a continuous line flowing in arcing loops and jagged spines from left to right and back again. It looks like the output from an EEG, or perhaps a seismograph, but for the fact it’s obviously hand drawn, and that the forms loop back over themselves. The left side of the centre line always irregular and jagged, the right almost oozing and organic and round.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ve never seen these before in my life,” Hermann says, truthfully.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I think it’s writing,” Shao says, eyes gleaming. “I think this is the Precursors’ language.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann is almost completely one hundred percent certain she’s correct. Which is why he snarls, “Don’t be ludicrous.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s fucking with us,” Stone says. “Even now. That rat-faced little fucker.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“He said he would give you what you wanted,” Hermann says, taking back the notebook. “I assume these <em>are</em> the topics you’ve been asking of him?” Then, when Stone’s silence is answer enough: “Very well. I will begin transcribing and verifying everything I can.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Send it to Liwen when you’re done.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s fingers tighten against the notebook. “Marshal, with all due respect. This is highly sensitive PPDC intelligence. I can’t just—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’ll do what I tell you to, Hermann. Liwen is with us as a consultant. I trust her.”</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>That’s not up to you to decide,</em> Hermann does not say. “Yes, sir,” is what he does.</p>
  <p class="p1">“She’ll want that by the end of the day,” Stone adds. Another dismissal, and Hermann stands. Shao does not.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Of course, sir,” he lies, and turns to limp painfully from the room, entirely too conscious of the eyes that watch him go.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann, of course, does not rush immediately back to his office to do Stone and Shao’s dirty work. Instead, he goes on a mission.</p>
  <p class="p1">It takes him half a morning and ends, of all things, at Nathan Lambert. Not directly, but Lambert knows someone who knows someone and within twenty minutes Hermann has, in his hands, one vintage Sony Walkman, a handful of old tapes, and an obviously home-brew device that will record to the latter from an laptop’s USB jack. He thanks Lambert profusely and gets an inscrutable stare and a, “Hope you know what you’re doing,” for his efforts.</p>
  <p class="p1">He says nothing in reply. Of <em>course </em>he has no idea what he’s doing. He’s in a situation no one else ever in the entire history of the planet has had to deal with. How could he know anything about it?</p>
  <p class="p1">And still, how could he do nothing?</p>
  <p class="p1">Three and a half hours later he has three freshly repurposed tapes and a half a notebook of transcribed pages. Then he goes to see Newton. The guards on duty in the observation room put up a token effort to stop him, but Hermann barges through it, secure in the knowledge a six-foot-two twenty-something is, in no way whatsoever, going to get himself into a physical altercation with a middle-aged cripple, let alone a war hero and someone so far his senior he’s barely a glimmer on the horizon.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is asleep when Hermann enters, or something close to it, sitting up in the corner on his cot, though his eyes snap open at the sound of the opening mantrap. Hermann thinks he sees a moment of tension, a glimmer of instinctual fight-or-flight, before Newton registers his visitor, blinks, and breaks into a painfully familiar grin.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yo, Herms. Hey.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord, what is he <em>doing</em>?</p>
  <p class="p1">“I could not retrieve your guitar,” Hermann says, crossing to the little drawer in the glass partition. “It appears to have been . . . liberated from its storage room. I’ve given it forty eight hours to return before I take action. I’ve brought you this in the interim.” The drawer snaps closed with a guillotine-like finality.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is up from his cot in an instant, practically bounding over to see what he’s been brought. Hermann’s heart aches for him, in spite of everything.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Holy shit. Holy fucking <em>shit</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And, Lord help him, but it’s 2024 once more. Painfully young and determined to <em>live</em>, no matter the apocalypse dawning, just beyond the sea.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton laughs as he pulls the Walkman from its drawer, and there is nothing strange or off or unfamiliar about it. Hermann has heard this laugh a million times before, echoing in their lab and down Shatterdome corridors and, yes, even exhaled breathlessly into his ear at the centre of a rioting LOCCENT. “Where the— where the fuck did you <em>find</em> this?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ranger Lambert, if you can believe it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“No shit? Huh. Tell him we’re fucking even then, yeah? Wow. And the tapes?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Try them and see.” Hermann does not smile, does not feel smug, and <em>definitely</em> does not feel joy. Hermann reminds himself he is here with an agenda; is dealing with a powerful, genocidal alien force. For however much his heart aches, he can never forget this.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton opens the Walkman’s cassette compartment, sees there’s already a tape inside, and immediately pops in the headphones to listen. It takes a few seconds for the music to begin but, when it does, his expression is <em>ecstatic</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Pacific Death Party! Holy shit Herms if I could I would fucking <em>kiss</em> you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord help him. “Yes, ah. Ahem. Well.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Seriously, though.” And there it is, the facade dropping, the old and the warm and the familiar obliterated in a heartbeat by the new and the cold and the alien. “Thank you.” Newton has one earbud held just beyond his ear, the other dangling on its cord. His eyes are ancient and strange, drilling into Hermann’s with the unfathomable void of Challenger Deep.</p>
  <p class="p1">It’s Hermann who looks away, lest he be lost in those cold, crushing depths. “It’s the least I could do for him,” he says. “For— for what he’s experienced. I believe now I’ve returned they will find it difficult to challenge my authority on his, on your . . . care.”</p>
  <p class="p1">From the corner of his eyes, Hermann sees Newton close his, take a deep and steadying breath, face tilted towards the heavens. But when he speaks, his voice is unchanged. “Dude, I told you. Don’t get your panties in a twist over it. We’re not worth it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The pronouns change, Hermann realizes. I, we, he; just like at Shao’s. It must mean something. Lord, please let it mean <em>something</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“It has to,” Hermann is says, barely a breath. “It has to be ‘worth it’. It has to <em>mean something</em>. Otherwise, what are we fighting for? What is the point of this whole, hopeless war if not that?” His hands want to shake. They don’t, not as tightly as he has them curled. The cane is good for more than one thing, after all.</p>
  <p class="p1">From the corner of his eye he sees Newton shift, hears him sniff. “Fuck,” he mutters. “Hermann—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“There are pages,” Hermann says, not wanting to hear . . . whatever that was going to be. “In the notebook. Not . . . not human writing.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A pause, then: “Yeah.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“They will try and translate it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A scoff. “Let them. We don’t— They won’t figure it out. They <em>can’t</em>. Their brains aren’t right for it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord. “The pages. What . . . what are they?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Another pause, then: “Personal asides. Nothing important.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann closes his eyes. He wants to believe, Lord but he does. “Newton . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I swear.” Strangely urgent, and hissed just as quietly. “I swear, Herms. It’s just . . . it’s not important, not to them.” Meaning it’s important to somebody.</p>
  <p class="p1">“They won’t let it go.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“<em>Good</em>.” Vicious and hissed, and it’s the closest Newton’s come to admitting . . . something. “Let them waste their fucking time.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton—”</p>
  <p class="p1">Except Newton is springing backwards, Walkman brandished and grin shattered and manic. “Thanks for the gift, Hermie. Pinky swear special promise no death rays, okay? Just sick tunes and dope beats.” He actually <em>winks</em>, tongue stuck out and hand throwing a piece sign by his eye, like some kind of perverse parody of a schoolgirl.</p>
  <p class="p1">The shifts are jarring, vertiginous, and Hermann exhales, slowly, and steps back from the glass. He nods, just once, to Newton, and receives another wink, Newton pushing both headphones into his ears and whooping and gyrating in manic abandon across the floor of his cell.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann forces himself not to look back as he leaves the room.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>He does the transcription, as promised, and sends the results to Shao, as promised. He doesn’t include the . . . the <em>asides</em>. Even if Newton had been lying, even if they are somehow critically important information, they’re unreadable.</p>
  <p class="p1">Shao notices the omission, of course, and comes in as Hermann is leaving to yell about it. Well, ask. Truthfully, Hermann does most of the yelling. The phrase “oh and the last time anyone attempted to decipher anything directly from the bloody Precursors worked so well, didn’t it!” may have been uttered. Or at least shrieked down the Shatterdome corridor, loud enough to have heads poking from rooms across the far side of the building.</p>
  <p class="p1">It’s not really about Shao, not really. Maybe. It’s about the idea of anyone, being able to open a Breach anywhere, <em>to</em> anywhere, for any reason. About the idea of launching an invasion against the Anteverse to start with. Hermann, so help him, truly “believes in the D of the PPDC”, as Newt, never one to resist a lewd pun, occasionally used to shriek. It’s not the Pan Pacific Attack Corps for a reason.</p>
  <p class="p1">They’d fought about it, during the War, in fact. About the fate of the Jaeger, once the kaiju had been vanquished. <em>Manhattan 2.0</em>, Newt had sometimes called them. <em>This genie’s not going back in its bottle, Herms, trust me. If we didn’t have the kaiju we’d be turning them on each other. </em></p>
  <p class="p1">Never before in history, Hermann thinks, has a man gone so far to prove himself so right.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>Brainwashed and I'm <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AolstL1_MhE">feeling fine</a>.</em>
</p>
<p>Spoilers: Pacific Death Party are 100% Bring Me The Horizon expys, mostly because "Ludens" popped up on my playlist and got stuck in my head while I was writing "Final Strain."</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. “Being stung is nothing to a beekeeper.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann sleeps, at least a little, and at least actual sleep rather than passing out in drunken exhaustion. He has hazy dreams of bright, snarling maws and a familiar, piercing laugh and doesn’t try and hold onto them when he wakes, half-hard and all aching and stares at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes as he musters up the energy to will himself out into the cold.</p>
  <p class="p1">He isn’t supposed to be here. Three months in London and six dinners with the faculty at Cambridge and an offer of tenure and a letter of resignation in his satchel. When he’d been recalled he’d decided it as good an opportunity as any to gather his things and give one last goodbye. And of <em>course</em> it’s Newton who ruined that, as always. Damn him. And of course Hermann now simply cannot abandon him, not back to the mercies of people like Stone. Damn them both, and the War, and the PPDC, and the Precursors to boot. Hermann is <em>tired</em>. He’s old and he’s tired and he’s done. He’s given enough, surely? To be allowed to feel that.</p>
  <p class="p1">Finally, he sighs, rolls over, and hauls himself out of bed.</p>
  <p class="p1">Twenty minutes later, he’s in his office, staring at a battered, old, and extremely familiar, guitar case. Opening it is like being punched physically back in time, to a different War and a different lab. To a different <em>Hermann</em>, one who used to berate an unrepentant Newt about why he bothered lugging so many unnecessary items all over the world, Shatterdome to Shatterdome. <em>To remind me what we’re fighting for, dude,</em> being generally representative of the answer. <em>What we’re “fighting for” is preventing the extermination of the entire human race!</em> being generally representative of then-Hermann’s response.</p>
  <p class="p1">Sometimes, the thought of inventing time travel merely to go back and slap his younger self is tremendously appealing.</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>Such a human thing,</em> indeed.</p>
  <p class="p1">The guitar inside the case is as Hermann remembers it, exactly as battered and with exactly the same number of stickers and scratches. He pulls a thumb across the strings and cannot for the life of him tell if they’re in tune, but at least all are present and accounted for. As is most of the rest of the detritus; an old notebook filled with scrawled tabs and lyrics, an absolutely vintage PPDC pencil nub, spare strings. One of the guitar picks is missing (because, yes, Hermann had inventoried <em>everything</em> in his grief); it’d been clipped from an old piece of Coyote Tango, and Hermann decides to let it go. He also removes and pockets the pick made from kaiju chitin, not because he thinks Newton will be able to somehow magically plant it in the soil of his room and grow an army, but to forestall any paranoia that he might.</p>
  <p class="p1">Then he closes everything back up, and walks down to the cells.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Newton is not there.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Sodding <em>fuck</em>,” is Hermann’s opinion on this. Three square-faced strangers make token protests as he leaves the guitar case in the opened-and-empty cell, and Hermann pulls rank on them enough to, he thinks, ensure it remains undisturbed. It occurs to him as he does so, as he’s verbally browbeating three rather large, extremely fit—and definitely military, and certainly not PPDC—men into quivering terror, that he’s behaving in exactly the way he used to abhor when he saw it in his father. He tells himself he’s doing it for good cause, even as he knows his father would tell himself exactly the same, then shelves the entire existential crisis away somewhere else to think about later or, preferably, never at all.</p>
  <p class="p1">One of the guards confesses Newton has been taken to interrogation and, when this results in an explosion of noise and spittle so violent it would register on a seismograph, reluctantly offers to take Hermann to the location in question. The fact that <em>a Shatterdome</em>—a location initially conceived to fight enormous monsters from another dimension not particularly known for their loquaciousness—even has a designated interrogation room in the first place is not at all lost on Hermann. So many things have changed, this last decade. Sometimes it seems so few have been for the better.</p>
  <p class="p1">When he arrives, the room is indeed a true interrogation room; complete with one-way glass and an external viewing area, currently occupied by two more strangers, one obviously US military, the other seemingly a civilian contractor. A pit of dread has been opening in Hermann’s gut over the possibility he may, in fact, walk in on some form of the PPDC’s apparent newfound zeal for verschärfte Vernehmung, and feels a physical unclenching when all he sees through the glass is the back of a salt-pepper crew-cut and Newton, sitting unblinking and still and staring with such alien intensity at his erstwhile interrogator it gives Hermann chills.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Going well then, is it?” Hermann snaps at the men in the viewing room. They leap to their feet and stammer out protests as Hermann bursts into the inner room with a: “I thought I made it <em>explicitly clear </em>no interactions with the prisoner were to be undertaken without the approval and supervision of K-Science!” Which is . . . not entirely truthful, though definitely something Hermann intends to start doing, as of roughly two days ago.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Who— you can’t be in here!” stammers the interrogator. Hermann doesn’t recognize him and he isn’t wearing identification. Another one of Stone’s coterie of quote-unquote “consultants,” then.</p>
  <p class="p1">And Newton says, overly brightly: “Jo, Hermann!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Good morning, Newton.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ist es morgen?” And there he is, a completely different person to the blank-faced alien Hermann had walked in on, slumping down in his chair, legs kicking out, grin spreading across his face. Hermann knows that grin. It’s the <em>this asshole doesn’t speak German</em> grin, the <em>c’mon play along</em> grin.</p>
  <p class="p1">And, so help him, Hermann does.</p>
  <p class="p1">«Congratulations. Your accent has gotten, against all odds, even more incomprehensible in the last decade.»</p>
  <p class="p1">«At least it’s doesn’t spontaneously generate lederhosen on anyone who listens to it.»</p>
  <p class="p1">«Oh, charming. I suppose I should congratulate Newt on his apparent ability to teach a race of genocidal alien conquistadors tedious inter-state stereotypes.» It’s out of Hermann’s mouth before he can really think about it, the grooves of the old teasing so well-worn the words spill down them with all the inevitability of a decade of being held back. Hermann has one moment to regret it, to think perhaps he’s pushed too far, ruined the ruse by giving too much away, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">But all Newton does is throw back his head and howl with laughter. «Oh dude,» he says. «Fuck you. Also, fuck I’ve missed you, you petty fucking asshole.»</p>
  <p class="p1">«Ahem. Yes. Quite.»</p>
  <p class="p1">“Enough! Enough, Doctor— Doctor Gottlieb—”</p>
  <p class="p1">«Dude he had to <em>think</em> about who you were! Who are these assholes?»</p>
  <p class="p1">“—can I speak with you, please? In private.” The interrogator looks like a man witnessing a very lucrative contract, and perhaps an entire career, being flushed completely down the drain.</p>
  <p class="p1">“No,” Hermann tells him, in English. “Also, who the sodding hell are you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">«Oh snap! It’s on!»</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton, shut up.” Hermann can actually <em>hear</em> the people in the observation room gasp, but all Newton does—all Newt would ever have done—is roll his eyes and stick out his tongue. The petulant little child.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” stammers the interrogator. “We need to— This is a very sensitive situation!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“For Heaven’s sake.” He turns back to the one person who, despite everything, he’s certain he can rely on to give him at least <em>some</em> kind of answer: «What is going on here?»</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton gives a comically exaggerated sigh, throwing up his hands as much as the shackles will allow. «We’re guessing they had you transcribe our little love letter?»</p>
  <p class="p1">«Yes.» Harmless enough to admit.</p>
  <p class="p1">«And let us guess, Shao’s here, and she’s seen it?»</p>
  <p class="p1">«What makes you say that?»</p>
  <p class="p1">«Because we can recognize her braindead brand of follow-up JAQing off from the fucking Anteverse, dude. Working hypothesis: she’s read through everything, sent back a list of questions, and they’ve been passed down to Jack Lint here.»</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. Of-bloody-course. Sod it all. «Beyond the method of asking,» he says, «do you have any particular objection to answering Ms. Shao’s questions?»</p>
  <p class="p1">«Um, yeah.» And, Lord. That expression; the smug smirk and the rolled eyes. He really should not have missed it so. «They’re stupid?»</p>
  <p class="p1">«Then you should be absolutely <em>overjoyed</em> at the prospect of telling her that in person,» Hermann says. «At length. In detail.»</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s grin is positively ecstatic. «Aw, Herms. You’d do that for me?»</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann rolls his eyes, tries not to show how sharply his heart pangs at the discordant echo of long-cherished words. “All right,” he says, back in English. “We’re done here. Get him up.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The interrogator looks quickly at the glass wall behind him, as if he’s somehow able to catch a glimpse of his superiors beyond it. “I— We are not done here!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I think you’ll find we are. Any further questions can be forwarded to my office. I’ll be handling these matters from here, thank you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You can’t just—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Three months,” Hermann snaps. “Three months and all you imbeciles have to show for it is a litany of visits to Medical for infected bite marks.” Because Newton has not exactly been passive in expressing his displeasure over his situation, regardless of the limited means available to him. “So we do things my way. Now. Somebody please bring me the bloody key to these cuffs!”</p>
  <p class="p1">This, apparently, is enough to rouse the uniformed gentleman from the observation room. He, too, has no insignias and no name on his uniform, almost certainly in breach of some international something or other. Honestly.</p>
  <p class="p1">He slams a key into Hermann’s outstretched hand and sneers, “That thing’s already tried to kill you once. Give us a call when it tries again.” American, of course.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I doubt that will be necessary,” Hermann sniffs, and tries to sound like he believes it as everyone marches from the room.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann watches them go, tries not to feel the way his blood spikes and his hands shake and, without turning, says: «Are you going to let me prove this point?»</p>
  <p class="p1">«What? That you can get the crazy murderous alien to follow you meekly back to its hole without any unsanctioned stranglings, thus showing up every jackbooted fascist shitheel in this overblown toilet block? Abso-fucking-lutely, dude. Sign us the fuck up.»</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann exhales. “Thank you,” he says. He knows he shouldn’t, knows the thing he’s talking to isn’t Newt, knows it’s had a decade’s worth of practice blending in, playing along, using people to get what it wants. Not to mention, it did rather try and kill him. He knows that.</p>
  <p class="p1">But, Lord, he wants to show those, yes, “jackbooted fascist shitheels” what for. And he’s betting there’s enough of Newt left over in the thing behind him that it’s prepared to play along to achieve the same. If only because it’s obviously decided Hermann is its preferred . . . what? Handler? Target?</p>
  <p class="p1">(<em>Friend,</em> says a dark little voice.)</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s hands shake as he unlocks Newton’s shackles. The entire contraption is . . . complicated, obviously designed to separate from the chair while still keeping its wearer restrained, though buggered if Hermann can figure it out. One of the world’s leading engineers and of course it’s bloody <em>shackles</em> that stump him.</p>
  <p class="p1">Or, maybe more accurately, it’s Newton. Newton, who’s a viscerally warm (and thrillingly compliant) presence beneath Hermann’s hands, and smells exactly like a man kept locked in a box with minimal grooming facilities would logically smell. It is . . . Hermann can’t think about what it is, not right now. He unlocks the shackles entirely for simple expedience, then steps back so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton, thankfully, doesn’t appear to notice; is too busy bounding upright, stretching and flexing with an absolutely indecent groan and a somewhat alarming cracking of joints.</p>
  <p class="p1">“God, we need to piss,” he announces, apparently back to English now their observers are ostensibly gone. “They dragged us out of bed for this shit. And that was . . . like. Few hours ago, maybe? We’d ask the time but we don’t know when they started, so . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann decides to leave the cuffs and the key on the table, and gestures for Newton to follow him from the room.</p>
  <p class="p1">“They normally put a bag over our head for this bit,” Newton supplies, cheerfully. “Sometimes they spin us around a few times to really try and throw us off.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Charming,” Hermann says. “How well does that work, then?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Don’t know,” Newton says, grinning and pulling slightly ahead. “Let’s find out!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Not very well” turns out to be the answer; Newton’s route is circuitous, and he hesitates at a few intersections, particularly those in which two offered routes would lead him, more-or-less, back to his path. But he clearly knows where he’s been taken. He even manages the elevators because, of course, they announce their arrival floors.</p>
  <p class="p1">Their passage is not unnoticed, though Hermann deflects all inquiries and attempted interceptions with his most withering glare. Including, at one point, to Ranger Namani and Cadet Malikova.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude, what the fuck,” Newton asks when they’ve left the boggling girls behind. “What are they, like. Twelve? You gonna throw them through the Breach, too?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s heart stutters, just a fraction. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Okay, first of all, you’re a terrible liar, and secondly, what are we? A fucking idiot? For the last three months the only thing anyone’s wanted out of us is intel that’d help a freakin’ invasion.” A pause, then: “Also, Pentecost’s kid strait-up told us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. Lord forfend anyone in the ‘Dome learn the meaning of operational security.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newt is saying: “Seriously though, Herms; kids? Not even Stacker got that desperate.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Hermann says, “but we’re currently undergoing something of a staffing crisis. Again. And they performed admirably against you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We’re not questioning their competence, dude. We’re questioning, like, the moral justification for them being here in the first place.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Funny, Hermann thinks, the . . . non-reactions he gets to comments like that. No denials, no excuses, no gloating, no remorse. Just acceptance. He wonders how deep that truly runs, how . . . freeing it must be, to live like that. He doesn’t have to wonder how terrifying it is for the rest of them.</p>
  <p class="p1">He has no answer to Newton’s comment and they lapse into silence for several paces. Then:</p>
  <p class="p1">“It won’t work, you know. Whatever little suicide mission they think they’re cooking up.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh. And you know this for a fact, do you?” Here it is, perhaps. The scorpion’s sting.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton has fallen back to Hermann’s pace and shoots him an absolutely incredulous look, which . . . fine. But: “Well, you— you’ll just have to excuse us if you’re not considered the most unbiased source on this subject.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude. If we were trying to mess with you we’d be all ‘rah rah yeah go team Earth fuck them up!’ But you’ll have to excuse <em>us</em> if we start getting all these uncomfy feels in our human meat over the idea of suicide bombing the Anteverse with child soldiers.” He’s scowling about it, too, hands in the pockets of his coveralls, stomping as best he can in the thin little slippers he’s been given. Hermann’s seen this exact behavior a hundred times before, whenever Newt felt conflicted or stubborn or started questioning the value of what he’d been doing. Hermann isn’t sure that, here and now, it’s not an act, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">“All right. Humor me. What would be required for a successful attack?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton makes a frustrated sort of hiss, gesturing wildly. “No, see! That’s your whole problem. You keep asking us the wrong questions.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“If so it’s only because <em>you</em> won’t tell us the right ones!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We’re not doing this just to piss you off, dude. It’s . . . hard. With the—” He makes that strange snapping gesture around his head again, on the left side, then the right. “It doesn’t— it doesn’t <em>process</em> right in your pathetic little language.” His voice has dropped a register, dropped the facade of Newt-ness. And still, the frustration remains. Hermann does not pretend to understand what is going on inside that scrambled brain but, in this moment, it does at least appear to be something causing Newton legitimate distress.</p>
  <p class="p1">“All right,” says Hermann, taking a breath. He reminds himself neither of them are the angry young men they used to be. They can talk this out like adults, surely. Walk it back, follow the logic, an equation of language. “What do you think we want to do?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Destroy us,” is the immediate, and rather unsettling, answer.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Some of us,” Hermann concedes. “The rest I feel would rather just like to be alone.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We did!” Newton hisses. “After Pitfall. We left you alone. We always do; there are infinite others to harvest instead.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And Hermann thinks: <em>Oh, Lord. </em>It may be the single most important piece of information anyone—bar Newt himself, perhaps—has ever received about the motivations of their adversaries.</p>
  <p class="p1">And yet:</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’d hardly call Tokyo, or the attacks before it, ‘leaving us alone.’”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You cannot blame us for <em>his</em> stupidity.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Who is he <em>talking</em> to right now? How does he even find out? Is it even worth the diversion, right in this moment?</p>
  <p class="p1">“What did you mean about Pitfall? About ‘always’ leaving . . . us? Leaving us alone?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton waves an arm, dismissive, then seems to startle when it enters his view. As it it wasn’t quite the limb he was expecting. “Being stung is nothing to a beekeeper,” he says. “Replace the comb, let the swarm settle, move on to the next.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“The next what?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Earth.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“The next . . . planet?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We said ‘Earth’, we meant Earth.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann gasps as the implications settle. “You . . . you have access to multiple copies of Earth? <em>How</em>?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“How do you fell one tree and not another? They exist.”</p>
  <p class="p1">They’ve always spoken of the Anteverse as if it existed outside their own universe; every Breach reading they’ve ever managed, including those from the failing Gipsy Danger, has supported this. And apparently they were <em>still</em> thinking too small.</p>
  <p class="p1">“The Anteverse isn’t just outside our universe,” Hermann says. “It’s outside <em>hyperspace</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton seems to consider this and, well. Quantum physics wasn’t exactly his specialty, so:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ah, the multiverse, may be a more accessible explanation? A structure housing a potentially infinite number of universes. According to some, each containing a parallel Earth. Newt will know it from pop culture, if nothing else, although the actual theory is somewhat more—” Which is as far as he gets, before Newton suddenly gasps in pain and doubles over.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s helping him straighten before he’s even had a chance to process the wisdom of the act (the wisdom of any of this, for that matter). Newton is shaking and there’s blood dripping onto the floor between his feet, and a Hermann’s heart stutters for one terrifying moment before he processes that Newton is <em>laughing</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, shit, dude. Sorry,” he says, and it’s <em>him</em> again. Hermann doesn’t know how he knows—something in the voice, in the bearing—but he’s certain of it. “Sorry, it’s just . . . it’s hard to stay that deep while watching you nut yourself over your dumb physics shit. Oh fuck am I bleeding from my <em>eye</em>?”</p>
  <p class="p1">He is. The same eye, in fact, that had once been violently red-ringed, after those first drifts. And suddenly, Hermann knows where he’s seen this before, this difference. Or, rather, knows when he’d started seeing it; in those beautiful, frantic few months, right after the War. Right before everything had fallen apart, had been violently torn apart by what Hermann now recognizes as the atavistic revulsion he’d felt, witnessing the birth of something inhuman and awful.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newt! What—?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Shit.” He’s laughing, and he’s pulling away, and Herman grabs him, desperate.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newt, please—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Okay, dude. Gonna cut you off right there before you do the whole Father Merrin, ‘we can fight them together’ speech I know you’re queuing up. ‘Cause, like, it’s super sweet. But I already told you it doesn’t work like that, plus I have now got a <em>killer</em> fucking headache. So if you wanna help out, you can take me back to my Hannibal Hole and maybe keep the goon squad off me for an hour or two while I sleep this off, yeah?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann kisses him.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newt tastes like blood and like a man with infrequent access to a toothbrush; feels like one with only a casual relationship with food, bathing, and shaving. He also doesn’t quite kiss back, but he doesn’t push Hermann away, and his hands come up to cup Hermann’s face. The terrible symmetry of it breaks him, and he chokes back a sob against Newt’s scratchy, stubble-covered neck, free hand fisted in the back of the ill-washed jumpsuit. Newt just stands there, that same strange limbo where he’s neither pushing Hermann away nor pulling him closer.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” Hermann chokes and, Lord. They’re standing in the middle of the bloody hallway. Someone could see. Someone probably already has; he hadn’t been paying much attention, too excited by . . . by <em>using</em> Newt. No better than Stone or Shao or any of the others. Lord. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ssh, c’mon man. It’s okay. I’m okay.” Newt pushes him back, gently. “C’mon, where’s that disgusting old man hanky I know you never leave home without? Get this snot off you before someone thinks I’ve been getting strangly again.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Bollocks. Hermann hadn’t even thought—</p>
  <p class="p1">He straightens as best he’s able, retrieves his handkerchief as instructed, gathers what remnants of his dignity he can. “I—” he starts, then has no idea what to say.</p>
  <p class="p1">Fortunately, Newt has always known how to fill up silence. “That’s it old chap, stiff upper lip and all that, wot wot.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann knows for a fact Newt has been able to fake his accent relatively convincingly for years; a weird side-effect of their Drift, of all things. This, of course, is not that, and it startles a laugh and a, “Oh, sod off.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Aa-aa-and he’s back. C’mon, Doctor G. You can’t kiss a boy on your second date then not walk him back to his door.” They don’t quite link arms—Newt seems reluctant to touch him, perhaps understandably cautious of how it may be perceived—but they do make it the rest of the way in an amiable sort of silence.</p>
  <p class="p1">But it’s Newton who steps back into his cell, all hard edges and tightly coiled mania, and Hermann tries not to hate him. If only because he seems to sense it, quieter and more withdrawn than their previous few interactions. A small, cruel part of Hermann hopes he’s realizing just how lacking he is compared to the man whose life he stole.</p>
  <p class="p1">Except then Newton sees the guitar, still sitting on the cot where Hermann left it, and for a moment his joy is pure Newt once more.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann just nods, once, then flees the room.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>It isn’t their first kiss. That had been similarly bloody and filthy and in the middle of the riots at LOCCENT, that one day they’d saved the world. They’d fallen into an exhausted heap in each other’s arms, giddy and in love, and Hermann had been convinced it was going to be the start of something permanent.</p>
  <p class="p1">And, well. It had been. Just not in quite the way he’d wanted.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>And oh God, if only it was that easy / To run from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eE5MghhKREU">what I've achieved</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. “Fuck you fuck you Gottlieb you arrogant prick you don’t know shit fuck you!”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>"Ahaha you know what this ridiculous action movie canon needs more of? <em>Forensic accountancy</em> aw yis."</p>
<p><strong>Content warning</strong> for some mild self-harm and threats of further self-harm in the section that starts <em>"Doctor Newton Geiszler get over here and explain yourself right now!"</em></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>“No. I will not be in the same room as that— that <em>thing</em>. I refuse.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Later. Hermann had been summoned to Stone’s office not long after dropping Newton back into his cell. Despite earlier protestations of needing sleep, Newton had been busy tuning the guitar when Hermann had left, blood forgotten and dried in a crusty tear track down his cheek. Hermann is still reeling from the experience and in absolutely no mood to deal with either Stone or, worse, Shao, who’s also here, because of course she is.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, rubbing at the start of his own headache. “Then write a sodding email and I’ll print it out for him and you can sort through his chicken scratch yourself. I don’t bloody care. But I must insist all this . . . this <em>rendition</em> nonsense stops. Immediately. It is getting us nowhere. Worse than nowhere.” Every time he thinks of that . . . that alien blankness on Newton’s face, he feels sick.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You think you can control it?” from Stone. <em>You keep asking us the wrong questions,</em> indeed.</p>
  <p class="p1">“For whatever reason, Doctor Geiszler appears amenable to speaking with me, at length, on largely any subject. While I can’t vouch for the veracity of anything he says, it’s still a significant improvement over anything else you’ve thought to try. I’d strongly suggest we exploit it.” Use the language they understand, beg for forgiveness later.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Operant conditioning,” Stone says. “It’s using you, to get what it wants.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann supposes this is what passes for an astute insight, in Marshal Stone’s world. “Of course he is,” he says. “I agreed to his . . . dinner. I’ve gifted him things to alleviate his boredom and intervened to extract him from situations he dislikes. Of course he wants more of it.” Then, because there’s a little part of himself that will always be Newt: “It’s almost like that’s intentional.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Stone is the sort of man who plays petty games with things like eye contact, and Hermann meets his gaze now, placid and unflinching. It makes his spine jump and his skin crawl, every time, but Hermann was raised by a man who ran his entire life as one staredown after another and he has had forty years’ practice. <em>Fake it ’til you make it, dude,</em> as Newt would have said and, by Jove, Hermann has done his fair share of both.</p>
  <p class="p1">“All right.” Stone blinks first. “You get what you want; the Precursor is yours. But that means I get what I want in turn, understood?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann inclines his head, just slightly. “Of course.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ll let everyone know.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’d like exit interviews with the current team,” Hermann tries, just to see. “There may be room for some to stay on, assuming they can acclimate to the new regime.”</p>
  <p class="p1">This gets him a narrowed gaze and a, “We’ll see.” Which is exactly the response Hermann was looking for, of course; so long as he’s the one seen to have extended the olive branch, on his terms, the current “team” can go jump in a Breach, for all he cares.</p>
  <p class="p1">They wrap up not long after, Stone making the calls and sending the emails he needs to put Hermann’s new authority into formal operation. It’s . . . a surprisingly liberating victory. Hermann does not for one minute think he won’t pay for it later but, for now, his steps are as light as they can be and his heart feels like its shucked at least one of the iron bands that have clenched around it since Shanghai. Or earlier.</p>
  <p class="p1">And then, outside Stone’s office:</p>
  <p class="p1">“I know you feel you’re doing the right thing. But . . . that thing. It will betray you. It is not your friend.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And Hermann feels the Kaiju Blue rise in his throat once more. When he turns to Shao, her expression is nothing but earnest, and yet, the words that spit forth say:</p>
  <p class="p1">“What makes you think you are anything other than the last person on Earth qualified to speak about ‘my friend’?”</p>
  <p class="p1">He doesn’t bother waiting for a response.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>At 2100, Hermann institutes his first change; dimming the lights in Newton’s cell. They stay that way for an hour, then turn off completely, leaving only the emergency LEDs. At 0600 the next day, the cycle repeats in reverse. Hermann makes sure to rise extra early to supervise, watches Newton twitch awake at the light and sit up, blinking blearily. The he reaches under his cot, pulls out the little stub of pencil from the open guitar case, and makes one single tally mark on the wall.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>At 0800 he brings Newton breakfast—apparently the man has been subsisting largely on ration bars and protein shakes and expresses no desire to change this—a stack of notebooks, a pile of print-outs, and an assortment of pens and pencils and related accessories. The print-outs contain various scientific papers Hermann thinks could use some more . . . competent input, now that it’s been, ahem, liberated from the private sector. Newton seems ecstatic over the prospect of a vigorous peer review, and immediately begins separating the print-outs into two piles; one of Hermann’s own work, one for everyone else. Hermann isn’t sure whether the nervousness he feels is excitement or terror, and tamps it down by clearing his throat and saying:</p>
  <p class="p1">“I assume you’re still interested in accruing points?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton stares up at him quizzically from the floor, just long enough for Hermann’s cheeks to heat with the humiliation of a poorly received joke. Then the recognition clicks into place and Newton smirks. “Inviting us on a field trip, Doctor G?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“A, uh. Shower, actually. If you’d like.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh <em>hell</em> yes.” Newton is on his feet in a heartbeat, practically vibrating with excitement. “Seriously dude we are, like, five long haul flights worth of rank right now.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’d noticed, yes.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Such a sweet talker; we can see why he loves you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">There it is again, the switching pronouns. Newt had spoken of himself exclusively as “I.” The more . . . Precursor-influenced personas are “we.” Newton seems to fluctuate between both, depending on how much he’s playacting Newt in any one moment. And Newt, of course, is the only one referred to with a third-person “he.”</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>It’s hard to stay that deep,</em> Newt had said, right after seeming to ricochet back into his old self entirely, apparently due to the neural strain in trying to... access the Precursors’ knowledge while simultaneously laughing at Hermann’s foolishness? It certainly suggests an avenue of exploration. Particularly coupled with the strange snapping gesture Newton keeps making, and the allusions to . . . to something not unlike Drift compatibility, even though Hermann is absolutely certain Newton’s had access to nothing of the sort since being here, whether knowingly or not.</p>
  <p class="p1">(Hermann doesn’t doubt Stone would’ve tried it, bar the fact there’s an entire forty page report on why that would a phenomenally terrible, and highly dangerous, idea. The short version is there’s a strong chance that whatever Newton did to his own brain with Alice is catching. It also limits Hermann’s options vis-a-vis any romantically heroic, swooping rescue via the same technology, something about which he has absolutely never fantasised about in any capacity ever.)</p>
  <p class="p1">Point being, would it be possible to induce <em>such</em> a state of cognitive dissonance—through laughter, through music, through <em>anything</em>—that it would evict the Precursor influence entirely?</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann needs more data. He needs to figure out what those data even are, first, and he needs Newton’s cooperation to stall for time while he does.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ta daa!”</p>
  <p class="p1">The cell’s exit is a concrete and steel mantrap on the far wall, and Newton bounds out of it as soon as Hermann releases the doors. He is almost childishly excited at the prospect of bathing, and grows even more so when Hermann hands him a cloth tote containing a collection of Newton’s own toiletries and athleisure wear, freshly liberated (and appropriately signed out) from the collection in storage.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s a shower facility at the far end of the floor, and Newton’s obviously been taken to it before, leading the way in a cloud of over-animated chatter. About the music Hermann recorded for him, about his guitar and the things he’d uncovered in his ancient notebook. Still more darkly manic than Newt ever was—and Newt certainly had his days—but Hermann is a man with a plan and he can only hope Newton’s newfound zest for old hobbies is a good sign. Of . . . something.</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord help him.</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord <em>also</em> help the fact Newton apparently has no compunctions whatsoever about stripping completely naked the moment the showers are within reach. Hermann bites back a tremendously undignified squark and tries to look anywhere but at the snarling, brightly coloured monsters than scroll across Newton’s strong back and lean thighs and round little arse.</p>
  <p class="p1">Good Lord.</p>
  <p class="p1">The showers are not communal but Newton does not close the door of the stall he enters and this is obviously how he’s grown used to things being done. It’s a sort of power, Hermann supposes, to be so shameless in a situation obviously intended to humiliate. The tattoos certainly help; they were shocking before and they’re still shocking now, but that old edge of baffling tastelessness has been replaced by something darker, more threatening. Newt had started acquiring them, in part, to feel closer to something so powerful and dangerous. Now he himself is, in fact, exactly that, the designs become less an aspirational totem and more an advertised threat. And if the thought of any of that brings heat to Hermann’s cheeks? Well. He’ll blame it on the steam from the shower.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton does not hurry in his ablutions and Hermann is disinclined to rush him. Instead, he sits himself on a nearby bench and listens to the endlessly running commentary (and occasional deeply lascivious groan), and it could almost be a different decade, a different Shatterdome. Almost.</p>
  <p class="p1">When Newton emerges, it’s at least with one of his own towels wrapped around his waist. He spends an inordinate amount of time fussing with an inordinate number of products in front of the mirror—honestly, some days Hermann was surprised Newt even knew what soap was, let alone anything else—and large portion of which is devoted to his hair. Eventually prompting an announcement of:</p>
  <p class="p1">“You know, this was driving us crazy but now we actually think we kind of dig it longer.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I shall inform the Marshal his new extreme makeover regime is working then, shall I?” Hermann says, because it’s better than thoughts of tangling his fingers through the soft, damp strands.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton, thankfully, just laughs. “Oh shit please do. And film the reaction to show us. Seriously where the fuck did they dig that guy up from? There is something not right there, y’know? Consider it, like, a professional warning; us murderous psychos can smell each other.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann has nothing to say to this that would be appropriate in the current situation, and so stays silent instead.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>When Newton is cleaned and shiny once more, Hermann leaves him to his reading and heads into his own office. He’s there exactly seven minutes before he wants to storm out again, care of an email from Shao.</p>
  <p class="p1">She’s apparently assembled a working prototype for a mechanism to re-open a Breach, though is stuck on, firstly, how to control the direction and size of the thing, to prevent any attempts at hijack by the Anteverse, and secondly, how to unlock the Throat. She wants Hermann’s help, of course; proposing a formal public-private partnership in text and a full time job between the lines. Hermann feels sick. Keeps hearing <em>suicide mission</em> and <em>the wrong questions</em> running over and over in his head.</p>
  <p class="p1">To say Shao Industries has been struggling since Tokyo would be putting it mildly. Both financially and, more importantly, for the fact the CCP is tremendously unhappy one of its greatest national champions was at the centre of such a public, costly, and long-running, disaster. Existentially so—disgraced CEOs have been disappeared for less—and Hermann doesn’t blame Shao for scrambling for safety. Getting the first patents on safe, usable Breach technology—licensed to the PPDC for a reasonable sum, of course—would go a long way towards putting her back in her government’s good graces.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann knows all of this. He just doesn’t see why he should make Shao’s troubles his own. Lord knows he has enough on his plate as it is.</p>
  <p class="p1">So he moves the email into his spam folder in a fit of pique, reopens the notes he has from Doctor Ogawa, and tries to come up with a plan.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>And then, a little after two:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Uh, Doctor Gottlieb?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Come in.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann swipes aside the projected scans and throws a stack of print outs onto an already precarious pile. He’s not sure if he wants to thank his intruder or scream at the disruption. He’s getting nowhere; neurology is hardly his specialty and xenoneurology even less so, and there’s only so far he can get by mining half-formed, decade-old Drift memories.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Um. They tell me Geiszler’s stuff needs to go through you, now?” The man is unfamiliar; the accent and the crewcut suggests another of Stone’s so-called goon squad but he has something nervous and mousey about his demeanour. So still military, perhaps, but definitely Chair Force if so.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Geiszler, yes.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Right. Um. Here’s the . . . I mean it’s not like there’s a normal process for this, but it should cover off the presumption of death arrangements.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And Hermann says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“ . . . what?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Here.” Hermann takes the neatly clipped folder when it’s handed to him. “I’ve tabbed everything he needs to sign.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“<em>What</em>?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Apparently sensing he’s on dangerous ground, the man takes a step back. “Uh. For the . . . I thought you knew? It was part of his deal. Geiszler wanted to be declared legally dead.”</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>“Doctor Newton Geiszler get over here and explain yourself <em>right now</em>!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude, what the hell? This room is like ten by ten of concrete you don’t need to yell.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann is furious. Beyond furious. Incandescent. He is combusting Kaiju Blue and a nuclear detonation and a collapsing Throat, all at once and he slams the opened folder against the glass, hard enough to jar his wrist, though he’ll worry about that later.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton gives him a painfully familiar, long-suffering look and, in absolutely no hurry, puts aside his work and wanders over from his cot. He shoots Hermann one last scathing glance, then peers forward to read. One moment, two. And Hermann <em>sees</em> it, the moment the facade drops, and when Newton straightens it’s back into that awful, alien rigidity.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Give that to us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“<em>No</em>! Explain yourself. Immediately!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We made a deal. Honour it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, stop that nonsense. So help me I have tolerated a great deal from you but I will not—<em>will not</em>, do you hear me—permit you to— to <em>murder</em> my friend!”</p>
  <p class="p1">A vicious sneer. “He’s already dead.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Bollocks! We both know that’s utter tosh! I’ve <em>spoken</em> to him!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You understand <em>nothing</em>. Nothing!” This last as a scream, Newton jerking forward, both fists pounding on the glass. It’s so sharp and sudden Herman startles, takes half a step backwards.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Stop that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Give us what we’re owed!” Newton screams it, pounding on the glass.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Stop it! You’re hurting him!”</p>
  <p class="p1">It’s the wrong thing to say. Newton launches himself at the glass, grinning wild and vicious, slamming his head into the partition. The edge of his forehead catches on one of the metal grilles, and when he looks back up, a trickle of blood runs from his forehead. “This meat is so fragile,” he hisses. “So easily destroyed.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Quite suddenly, Hermann can’t feel his fingers. “You wouldn’t.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And Newton grins that awful grin, and says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Try me.”</p>
  <p class="p1">
    <em>Try me. Not “us”. Me. </em>
  </p>
  <p class="p1">And Hermann looks, truly <em>looks</em>; tells his eyes to ask the right questions. To see past the facade, to find the man he used to know—the man he’s loved and shared a mind with, a life with—to find him, and <em>know</em> him. Know pain, know terror. Know a trapped animal, gnawing at its own limb in desperation.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann takes a step back, prays to a God he barely believes in that he’s right, and tears the entire folder of papers clean in half.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton <em>screams</em>, animal and inarticulate, throwing himself at the glass partition and pounding on it. With his hands, though, not his head, and Hermann knows he chose well.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I will not,” he says, “let you kill my friend. And I will not give in to this tantrum.”</p>
  <p class="p1">He strides out, echoes of “fuck you fuck you Gottlieb you arrogant prick you don’t know shit fuck you!” following in his wake.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Trouble in paradise, Doc?” sneers the goon on watch as Hermann passes. He doesn’t deign giving a reply.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann is still furious by the time he makes it back to his office. He’s just not entirely sure who he’s furious <em>with</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s something else going on here. Newton’s reaction was . . . not proportionate. Hermann doesn’t think it’s merely due to being denied something he obviously wanted; the man has suffered worse indignities with greater stoicism, and far crueler tortures than simply being made to live. And only legally, at that; there’s no threat to Newton’s actual life, and—</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>He’s already dead,</em> Newton had said. <em>The last meal of a dead man. </em>Even the sad sort of way he’d implied that, while Hermann would see another birthday, Newton wouldn’t.</p>
  <p class="p1">The realisation is so visceral Hermann gasps from it. And it makes a terrible sort of sense; a dangerous terrorist, a traitor, something no longer entirely human, effectively disappeared into the bowels of a secret base. Tortured, kept alive only so long as they found a use for him. Rotting meat, still living. Newton had merely wanted the law to reflect what he’d felt to be true. The one death he could have on his own terms.</p>
  <p class="p1">It’s neat, and vicious, and very likely tailor-made to appeal to a man like Stone. So many little loose ends, all tied up.</p>
  <p class="p1">
    <em>The wrong questions.</em>
  </p>
  <p class="p1">It takes Hermann roughly ten minutes to do what he should’ve in the first place, i.e. read the stack of documents he’d so callously torn up. It is . . . strange. A contract, of sorts, plus a formal notification intended to have one Newton Geiszler declared legally dead by the United States government. The story is the same one Hermann had received three months ago; shot attempting to escape PPDC custody, body withheld due to the potential for extraterrestrial contamination. All very . . . neat.</p>
  <p class="p1">And then, almost as an afterthought, a note authorising the remains of Newton’s estate to be passed on to his next of kin.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s remuneration from Shao Industries has been generous and he had, at the end, been an extremely wealthy man. Hermann knows this because the PPDC had frozen Newton’s assets after Tokyo—not just the apartment, but bank accounts and investments and financial instruments, the whole lot—and Hermann had had a hand in arranging it. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, still too raw and numb with grief, but he kept meticulous records and he goes back through everything now.</p>
  <p class="p1">He knows exactly what he’s looking for when he finds it. Newton’s investment structure is the kind of labyrinthine, multi-level nightmare of trusts inside companies inside trusts of an affluent man with an entire staff of over-eager accountants on retainer, but buried at the bottom is the simply named Geiszler Discretionary Trust. One that, since its inception, has paid out a generous monthly stipend to the bank account of one Jacob Geiszler.</p>
  <p class="p1">Or had done, until three months ago, when Hermann had frozen it.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Bollocks.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The Geiszlers had not been wealthy, but they had been loving; had done their best to give their precocious, difficult son every opportunity, no matter the cost. And Newt had adored them for it.</p>
  <p class="p1">Illia Geiszler had died some years back; Hermann had been invited to the funeral but hadn’t been able to make it back to Berlin, what with one thing and another. He’d spoken with Jacob on and off since, mostly in a kind of shared pain for the strange and sudden loss of someone once so important in both their lives. An elderly man, living alone in a small flat. One vulnerable, perhaps, to the sort of people desperate for anything, anything at all, to use as leverage against a recalcitrant prisoner.</p>
  <p class="p1">One little piece of paper, one final, tiny deception. And Jacob, suddenly wealthy enough to live the rest of his life in comfortable obscurity, no second thought given to his place in this whole, sordid, vicious tale.</p>
  <p class="p1">Very carefully, Hermann closes down his computer and packs everything away. It’s been some time since he took lunch in the city. He has some phone calls to make. And he absolutely cannot make them here.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Later:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Missed all the fun, Doc. Had a whole bunch of shrieking, then throwing shit, then it started scribbling all over the walls. Crazy stuff. Been sitting in a ball in the corner for a while now, though. Never seen it react like that to <em>anything</em>. You sure did a number on it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann ignores the commentary, passing through the observation room’s mantrap gate and into Newton’s cell which, yes, is rather as described. Pens and papers strewn across the floor, the wall above the cot filled to the ceiling with that strange, alien writing. And Newton, sitting beneath it all, curled with knees drawn up and head hidden behind his arms.</p>
  <p class="p1">He looks miserable, and Hermann aches for him.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton?”</p>
  <p class="p1">A flinch, a clench of fingers and toes.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I, ah. I’ve reconsidered my earlier words. You were correct; I did not understand the full extent of the . . . situation. I believe I now do. I . . . apologise, for my earlier behaviour.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Movement, one red-rimmed eye, peering from between a brightly snarling forearm.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s a place, Hermann knows, where the cameras don’t quite reach. A blind spot, and he stands in it now, pressing a piece of paper against the glass.</p>
  <p class="p1">Cautiously, Newton uncurls—he has definitely been crying, poor thing—and approaches. Notparticularly close, but apparently close enough to read Hermann’s message.</p>
  <p class="p1">
    <em>I have made arrangements. Discreet, with someone I trust. He will be safe and cared for.</em>
  </p>
  <p class="p1">He hears Newton’s breath hitch, and when their eyes meet, Hermann tries to convey every inch of his sincerity. He tries to tell himself there’s no way Newton could think he would hurt Jacob, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">Desperate people do awful things, in war.</p>
  <p class="p1">Except the expression that floods Newton is one of pure, trusting, relief. <em>Thank you,</em> he mouths, and when he blinks, tears fall free.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann nods, just once, and pockets the note. Then walks from the room. Behind him, Newton heaves a sigh, an goes to pick up his work.</p>
  <p class="p1">The goon whistles as Hermann passes. “Dunno how you do it, Doc.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“No,” says Hermann. “Someone like you never could.”</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>We go out, we <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1qRPmXcuiso">don't always come back</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. “I mean, I used to know a guy who’d, like, die if he ever got bitten by an ant.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ngl being late to this party means I have no idea where the "Precursors are CrossFit douchebags" trope in post-<em>Uprising</em> fandom comes from... but this fic leans pretty hard into it all the same. Because lol.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>After that, things fall into a strangely comfortable sort of rhythm. Newton sleeps when his room is dark and rises with the lights, spends the morning exercising (of all things), before Hermann arrives with breakfast and an escort to the showers. They discuss work, mostly, occasionally reminiscing or making small-talk. Hermann starts bringing Newton more of his own clothes, his bedding, a yoga mat, a morning newspaper. Newton spends most of the day working, either marking up whatever Hermann happens to bring him or filling up notebook after notebook of whatever he happens to think they might like to know, topics ranging from the topography of the Anteverse to the engineering of the kaiju to ideas for potential new gene therapies to treat everything from the flu to cancer to, memorably, death itself. When he isn’t working, he plays guitar—a little awkwardly at first, but growing more and more confident and competent—or fills the walls with Precursor scrawl. The Marshal in particular seems unnerved by the latter, until Hermann asks outright if he’s truly concerned Newton may be able to conjure up kaiju with the power of Sharpie alone (<em>The last I checked, Marshal, magic was still not actually real, even in the Anteverse</em>).</p>
  <p class="p1">Things aren’t perfect, but when are they ever? Shao is still hounding him about the Breach devices. Stone still makes Hermann’s skin crawl. The threat of the Anteverse still looms, and now that it’s been infected with the possibility, the PPDC is still devoted to the notion of invasion. And yet Hermann feels like a man suddenly awoken from a decade-long daze. He has his work, and he has Newton, and what else has he ever, truly, desired?</p>
  <p class="p1">Dangerous thoughts indeed.</p>
  <p class="p1">And then, one morning, he hears a scream.</p>
  <p class="p1">He’s in the hallway, not far from the entry to Newton’s cell, and Hermann is not a man made for elegant athletics and yet here he excels, making it into the observation room in record time.</p>
  <p class="p1">It is empty.</p>
  <p class="p1">The sound has come from the cell itself. From Ranger Namani, of all people, who the monitors show standing in front of the glass partition, staring resolutely at the ceiling, eyes squeezed tightly shut.</p>
  <p class="p1">Because, of course, it’s very early. Newton is awake and in the middle of the overly complicated calisthenics he performs, and wearing, as he does, what he has now taken to sleeping in. Which is to say: nothing.</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>Ah,</em> thinks Hermann.</p>
  <p class="p1">For a moment he debates intervening, but Newton is in the process of pulling on clothes and, “Okay, pants on. It’s safe,” comes drifting in from next door.</p>
  <p class="p1">And, so help him, Hermann is <em>curious</em>. Of course he is, he’s a scientist. And Newton is locked behind glass, and Namani came here of her own free will. And so Hermann sits, as quietly as he can, and puts on the headphones that will give him a direct line to the cell’s audio feed.</p>
  <p class="p1">Namani opens one eye and peeks downwards, just to check. But Newton is true to his word, and is in the process of pulling on a drop-sleeve tank over his newly donned sweatpants.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Um,” says Namani.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Normally we’d be making some kind of lewd joke here,” Newton adds, conversationally, “but you’re, like, twelve and we’re not sure we want to see what the even deeper Pit of HR Despair is than this, so . . . What can we do you for this merry morn, Baby Ranger?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, geez. Um. I brought you coffee?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton tilts his head. The camera feed isn’t sharp enough to catch his expression, but Hermann can imagine it; intrigued and incredulous, all at once.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dahmer Drawer is over there.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“The . . . what?” But Namani is moving over to the facility in question.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Wow, what are they even teaching you kids in school these days?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I mean, not this, obviously.” There’s a loud, metallic clunking as Namani figures out the operation of the drawer.</p>
  <p class="p1">A pause, as Newton inspects his new delivery. From what Hermann can see, it is, indeed, a cardboard cup of coffee, likely carried directly from the DFAC. Newton opens the lid after he’s retrieved it, sniffing the contents, and Namani blurts: “It’s just coffee. I haven’t, like. Poisoned it or anything. I think Doctor Gottlieb would kill me. Like, actually kill me if I tried that. Painfully.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Probably.”</p>
  <p class="p1">(Most definitely, more like.)</p>
  <p class="p1">“I hope it’s okay? I, um. I asked Ms. Shao what you liked and she was kind of . . . mad about it? So . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton takes a sip of coffee. When he does not spit it out violently, Hermann assumes it must taste acceptable.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You asked Liwen Shao our coffee order?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Um . . . yes?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Brave. But, as per the ancient accords, you’ve brought the monster its sacrifice.” Newton gives an exaggerated bow, arms outstretched. “Ask what you’ve come to ask.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’ll— you’ll actually talk to me? They say you only talk to Doctor Gottlieb!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Looks like you’ve got empirical evidence to the contrary. So, for bonus points, can you tell us why you think that is?” Newton was a teacher once, Hermann thinks. In another life.</p>
  <p class="p1">And, to her credit, Namani gives the question serious thought. And to his, Newton is quiet while she does. Eventually: “We’re . . . we’re both PPDC,” she says, slowly. “Those other guys aren’t.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton laughs, short and sharp and dark. “The future of the Corps,” he says, not quite mockingly. “A+. Your turn.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“What did you mean, the other day? When you told Doctor Gottlieb that . . . that an assault against the Anteverse would be suicide?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Baby Ranger!” Newton says, in mock horror. “Eavesdropping! Why I never!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Namani’s fists ball at her side, just briefly. “I— We have a right to know!” she says, chin raised and voice stubborn. “We’re the ones they’ll send! If it . . . if it’s not going to work . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You don’t want to die.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Not for nothing! Who wants to die for <em>that</em>?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton chuckles, covering it with a sip of his coffee. “We meant exactly what we said. You could send every Ranger and every Jaeger and every nuclear warhead against us and we’d barely see it as a scratch. You are nothing to us; one tiny speck in an ocean of infinity. What chance the ant, no matter how plucky and precocious, against a man?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I mean, I used to know a guy who’d, like, die if he ever got bitten by an ant. So not that bad, depending.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton laughs, loud and earnest. “See. The PPDC doesn’t need all these overpriced consultants; they have <em>you</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I can’t actually tell if you’re, like, negging me or not.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton just takes a sip of his coffee.</p>
  <p class="p1">“All right,” Namani barrels forward. “So . . . if we’re so insignificant, why even bother with us at all?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“A trillion grains of sand is still a beach,” Newton says. Then, after a pause: “A small beach. Probably. Dumb rhetorical math is more Herms’s thing, but you get the idea.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“So you’re saying we should just . . . what? Give up? Roll over and let the Anteverse fuck us?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Content warning: sexual violence!” Newton gasps in mock (or, honestly, possibly very real) outrage. “And no. We never said that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You just think the idea of a counterattack is stupid?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“This one? Yes.” Hermann reminds himself this is the creature that managed to orchestrate the single most devastating attack the PPDC has ever endured, and done it entirely under their noses. Alone. For a decade. Newt was no great strategist of any type, let alone military. But Newton . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">Namani is nodding, seeming to digest this information. Then: “Why are you helping us?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton looks up sharply, eyes closing; inhaling, Hermann assumes, though the microphones don’t pick it up. Eventually, he says: “No. That answer’s not for you. Ask something else.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And, again to her credit, Namani doesn’t push. Instead tilts her head, thinks for a moment, and says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is that writing? On the walls. Precursor writing?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“What . . . what does it say?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton shrugs. “Mostly? Song lyrics.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Namani jerks, startled. “No-oo-oo... Seriously?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yeah.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Like . . . Precursor songs?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton laughs again. “No, man. We don’t have music. Human songs.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Why—?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We don’t have a spoken language; that’s not how we communicate. So it can be hard. Translating properly. Words are missing, concepts don’t line up; things like that. We’re practicing.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“On the walls?”</p>
  <p class="p1">A shrug. “What monster doesn’t need a wall of crazy in his lair? Plus, it pisses off the Marshal.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Namani snorts a poorly repressed giggle. “All right,” she says. “What does . . . that one say?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton walks over to where she’s pointing. “This one?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yeah.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“‘One more sun comes sliding down the sky,’” Newton quotes, finger pointing to the words as he says them. “‘One more shadow leans against the wall. And the world begins to disappear.’” It does jump, Hermann realizes; some of the words are written on the left of the central line, others on the right, regardless of their order in the sentence.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Wow. Emo. How come it’s written on the different sides like that?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You know how some languages have gender? Male and female words?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You mean, like . . . Spanish and whatever?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yeah.” Then, when Namani nods: “This is that. More or less. Just . . . our version.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Your two genders are ‘elvish’ and ‘Cthulhu’?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton chuckles; there’s a dark edge to it, Hermann thinks, but not directed at Ranger Namani. “Something like that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Weird. Also, you legit drink coffee with straight-up butter in it, huh? I thought maybe Shao was, like. Messing with you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Nope.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“That is so evil.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Thank you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Um. Cool response. Look, this has been . . . weird. But, like. Thank you? For talking to me, I guess?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Come back any time. You know where we live. Bring coffee. Hermann never brings me coffee.”</p>
  <p class="p1">(Hermann rolls his eyes, is what Hermann does.)</p>
  <p class="p1">“Speaking of, I’d better, like. Book it. Before he finds me.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Given the time,” Newton says, “We’d say he’s been listening for a while.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Which, yes. Is Hermann’s cue. And so he stands, putting aside the headphones. “That would be accurate, yes,” he calls, as he unlocks the mantrap.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh shit,” says Namani.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Bus-te-ed!” sing-songs Newton.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ranger Namani,” says Hermann, with a nod. “Newton. Good morning.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Um. Hi?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yo, Hermslice. Baby Ranger brought us coffee!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes, so I see. And perhaps next time she chooses to do so it may be a little later in the day, yes? So we can all avoid any unnecessary trips to HR.” This is, after all, Newton’s only room, and he can’t control who comes in or out. Other people enter at their own risk.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Make sure you knock unless you want to accidentally walk in on us taking a crap!” Case in point.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh my god,” says Namani, face crimson. “I’m . . . I’m just going to—” She points vaguely at the door, then flees.</p>
  <p class="p1">Their wait until she’s gone, until they can no longer hear her feet, scrambling on the concrete. Then they both burst into laughter.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh dear Lord.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude. Fuck, dude. We do <em>not</em> need ‘accidentally exposed self to children’ added to our fucking rap sheet.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It <em>is</em> a little petty for your aspirations, I admit.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“No. Gross. Do not want. Stop. This never happened. We’re deleting it from the timeline five-eva.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“So I should return the tan Mackintosh I just purchased for you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We will freakin’ strangle you again we swear.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’d like to see you try with those butter-smeared fingers,” says Hermann. Because what else can he do, if not turn that pain into a dark, unfunny joke? “Honestly, I thought the cream and sugar monstrosities you used to drink were bad enough.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hey. Don’t knock the bulletproof until you’ve tried it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Bold of you to assume I haven’t already. I do like a spot of po cha; I thought it may be similar. More fool me.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton just laughs, drinking more of his godawful coffee, leaning against the glass partition. So close, but for that.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Amara Namani,” Hermann says, after a moment. “For future reference.” Hermann is almost certain she’ll be back, and it occurs to him Newton use of a nickname was perhaps more from necessity than anything else.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Noted, and thank you,” says Newton, smirking and likely thinking the same.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Of course, Ranger Namani’s visit has another effect, which Hermann stumbles over the next day, literally, when he walks into the lab and straight into a woman.</p>
  <p class="p1">Said woman squeaks at the impact, stumbling and sending armfuls of papers and a cup of coffee and a tablet clattering across the lab floor. Possibly fatally, in the case of the now-cracked, caffeine-soaked electronics.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh god! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ll clean this up, I swear!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes you bloody will!” Hermann snaps. “Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Swadesh,” comes the clipped voice of Liwen Shao, owner emerging from the far side of the lab. “Our linguist. I sent you an email.” This last the sort of arch, raised-eyebrow tone of a woman very used to her correspondence getting mysteriously “eaten by the spam folder.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m so sorry, oh no my tablet. I’ll clean— Um. Do you have something I can—?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann storms over to retrieve paper towels and spray cleaner, shoves them into the startled, coffee-smelling hands of Doctor Swadesh, then rounds on Shao: “I did not approve this!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I didn’t ask you to.” Shao moves to the holoprojector, cold and calm. “As you’re <em>well</em> aware”—<em>and didn’t tell me,</em> added unspoken—“we finally have a concrete lead on translating the Precursors’ language.” Hermann recognizes the images she brings up; high-definition, digitized images of the scrawling on Newton’s walls. They must’ve been taken when Newton was showering.</p>
  <p class="p1">“A real, actual alien language!” Swadesh blurts, hands still filled with wads of damp paper. “This is just— I’m so thrilled! This is such an amazing opportunity, thank you both so much!” She’s in her early forties, maybe, somewhat overweight, accent the sort of vague melange of a Continental ex-pat. In office attire but there’s something somehow shabby about it; the token effort of someone more excited over their profession than over the appearance of professionalism. Hermann knows himself well enough to know these traits remind him of Newt, and have him softening towards Swadesh the moment he notices it.</p>
  <p class="p1">He knows Shao we’ll enough to assume this was intentional.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Here.” Paper towels forgotten on a bench, Swadesh bustles up to the holoprojector, begins swiping and bringing up displays. “This is the passage, uh— the passage we know the translation to: ‘One more sun comes sliding down the sky. One more shadow leans against the wall. And the world begins to disappear.’” The passage highlights as she indicates it. “‘Einstein on the Beach.’ That’s the song, the lines are from the bridge, so they repeat several times.” A flick, and the full lyrics pop up, translated passages highlighting, repetition mapping to both samples. “If the language has no spoken component I think it would be logical to treat it as logographic? I’ve been trying to do an initial mapping of symbols. Amazing, isn’t it? The Rosetta Stone for a completely alien writing system and it’s a Counting Crows song! We could learn <em>so much</em> from this!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord save him from overly earnest academics.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Swadesh is a Professor of Linguistics,” Shao says. “Her institution has very graciously agreed to loan her to us to assist in this matter.” A pause, for effect, and somehow Hermann knows <em>exactly</em> what Shao is going to say, even before: “From MIT, in fact.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord save him from this, too. Hermann sighs, stares at the dusty, grimy ceiling for a moment, then: “Doctor Swadesh, was it?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Um. Yes?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Come with me, please.”</p>
  <p class="p1">He feels Shao’s smug, self-satisfied little smirk follow them all the way down the corridor.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>“Doctor Geiszler, are you decent?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yo, Herms. Bring ‘em in.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Several minutes later. Hermann could tell the moment Swadesh realized where they were headed from the way she suddenly swapped nervous small talk for silent, humming anxiety.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann doesn’t bother asking Newton how he knows Hermann’s brought a visitor; assumes the use of the title gives it away. When they enter the cell, Newton is dressed in dark jeans and a PDP t-shirt so ancient Hermann remembers it from the War. He’s reclining on his bed, going through papers, pen in his mouth, bare foot propped up on his knee. He looks so young, like a grad student, and it makes Hermann’s heart ache. Among other things.</p>
  <p class="p1">From beside him, he hears Swadesh’s breathless, “Ohmigod,” as she takes in the scene.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Liwen Shao has gifted us a linguist,” Hermann says, by way of introduction. “From your alma mater, in fact. Doctor Swadesh. She’s here to learn the Precursors’ language.” The <em>I told you they wouldn’t let this go</em> remains unspoken.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Wow.” Newton tosses his papers and pen down onto the neatly made duvet, flips himself up onto his feet. “Man, now we’re gonna feel totally stupid. Been trying so hard to get you to think we’ve been writing out secret evil plans and here you’ve gone and hired someone to figure out it’s all just sappy love poetry.” Newton’s approaches the glass as he says it, leans in as close as he can to Swadesh, points at a section of wall, and stage-whispers: “That one’s just ‘Hermann Gottlieb is a sex god’ written like ten thousand times. Don’t tell him.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton has decided to trust Hermann’s judgement, in other words; that Swadesh is . . . acceptable, and he’ll cooperate with her because of it. Undoubtedly acting the insufferable arsehole the entire time but, well. That’s Newton.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That’s <em>Doctor</em> Hermann Gottlieb to you, Doctor Geiszler,” Hermann says, because it makes Newton laugh. And because he looks tremendously appealing doing it, standing there in his too-tight clothes and too-bright tattoos and too-shaggy hair. Lord. “And I assume I can leave you to it?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“What?” squeaks Doctor Swadesh, who was obviously not quite expecting her day to go like <em>this</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton just waves a hand, dismissive. “Sure sure, off you go to lick your math or whatever it is you do these days. Let us and the doc here do the fun science.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Very well. Doctor Swadesh, Newton.” He gives them each a curt nod, and excuses himself. He tries not to smirk too much over Swadesh’s flustered stuttering as he does. She’ll be fine, he thinks.</p>
  <p class="p1">And then, waiting a short distance down the hall, is Liwen Shao. Hermann wonders how long she’s been standing there, trying to force herself into the cell. Wonders how many <em>times</em> she’s stood there, cursing herself for not being able to face the monster she nurtured for the better part of a decade.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ms. Shao,” he says, as he passes.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hermann. Wait.”</p>
  <p class="p1">He half turns, eyebrows raised.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We . . . we are on the same side,” she says. “I need you to remember that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, I assure you,” Hermann says, entirely sincerely, “I will never, <em>ever</em> forget.”</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Over the next few days, cadets start appearing in Newton’s observation room. Or sometimes just his room, talking or listening to him play guitar or, of all things, obtaining tutoring for various academic assignments. By the end of the week they’ve all-but replaced what few shreds had been left of the crewcut military strangers, up to and including running interference to keep the stragglers out. One evening Hermann even walks up to find one of the maybe generals in the middle of screaming at a completely unperturbed Jake Pentecost, who’s leaning casually in the doorway to block access to the cell.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann is, of course, immediately granted entry, sending General Maybe into an even greater depth of strop.</p>
  <p class="p1">Inside the cell, Hermann finds what he can only describe as some kind of study group; cadets and Newton sitting on the concrete around the glass partition, apparently doing chemistry homework. Someone has even set up a little portable speaker to play music as they do and, yes. They brought Newton a coffee, with which he salutes Hermann in greeting.</p>
  <p class="p1">They have to answer to the Marshal for it, of course.</p>
  <p class="p1">So it’s Hermann and Pentecost and a too-smug General Maybe, and Marshal Stone, who snarls, “When I gave custody of the prisoner to you, Hermann, I didn’t expect you to turn that room into some kind of fucking circus.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“With all dude respect,” Hermann lies, “I hardly see the problem, so long as Doctor Geiszler remains cooperative.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“The ‘problem,’” says General Maybe, “is that thing is dangerous. It got into Geiszler’s head, it can get into others’. And you’re exposing your entire roster of cadets to it!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ranger Pentecost?” Stone turns to the man in question, who shrugs.</p>
  <p class="p1">“They think if they’re nice to it, it’ll phone home and stop the war.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Which, oh. How . . . heart wrenching, actually. And from a group of children who’ve never known anything but conflict.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That’s preposterous!” is the opinion of General Maybe. “This is war. We don’t have time for this touchy feely kiddie bullcrap!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“‘Kiddie bullcrap’ from the very children you expect to fight said war for you,” Hermann points out. “Can you blame them for trying a less violent route?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You spend too much time with that thing,” says General Maybe, thick finger stabbing in Hermann’s direction. “How do we know you’re not one of them? You Drifted, too.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, Pentecost gets halfway through an outraged “Oi!” but, surprisingly, it’s Stone who says, “Enough, Reg.” Then: “You’re playing a dangerous hand, Hermann. It’s effective, which is why I’ve let it continue. But people have noticed what you’re doing and they’re not happy, and unhappy people ask questions. You’d better hope you continue being in a position to answer them.”</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>'Cause nothing I've done, yeah / Is worthy of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7y0QWQwTbeM">showing to you</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. “Survival is not sufficient. We must repair this ruined world.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Monday morning and they return from the showers to find Doctor Ogawa arguing in the observation room with a rather large gentleman in a nurse’s uniform, a bandage on his forearm, and a half-healed black eye. Newton, who’d previously been going mile-a-minute talking about what he now calls “his work” with Doctor Swadesh, drops immediately into blank, alien stillness at the sight.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton?” It’s still distressing. How quickly he can . . . switch modes. How Hermann can never quite forget that the thing beside him is not the man he’d once known.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh shit,” says the nurse. “It’s true.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You <em>idiot</em>,” hisses Ogawa. “I told you to wait.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“What on Earth is going on here?” Hermann steps himself between Newton and Ogawa. He doesn’t even really think about it; pure protective instinct, ten years out-of-date.</p>
  <p class="p1">Because if there’s one thing Hermann has learnt, it’s that this reaction from Newton? This retreat into the facade of the cold and malevolent and alien? It’s fear.</p>
  <p class="p1">“D— Uh, Doctor Gottlieb?” says the nurse. “They didn’t tell you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann is starting to loathe that sentence, particularly when Ogawa blusters, “I don’t have time for this!” And tries to storm from the room. Unsuccessfully, as it turns out, as Newton’s blocking the door and Hermann’s blocking Newton, and Ogawa doesn’t have the courage to push past either of them.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m supposed to take the prisoner to Medical,” says the nurse. “Every third Monday, sir.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Are you <em>really</em>,” Hermann says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes sir.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“And how do you normally do that?”</p>
  <p class="p1">The nurse’s eyes flick to Newton, just once. Then he sighs. “We have to put him out. He, uh. Doesn’t like going.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’re Mr. Keawe,” Hermann guesses because, yes. He’s seen the incident reports. “How <em>is</em> that bite mark healing?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Nurse Keawe, to his credit, looks abashed, scratching absently at his bandaged arm. “‘S why I’m here, sir,” he says. “Heard you might, uh. Be able to handle things a little smoother. Uh. Always better for the patient, y’know? Less distress and all that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Why does Doctor Geiszler need to go to Medical every third Monday, Doctor Ogawa?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You— you know why,” she hisses. “Doctor Gottlieb, I really must—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Does Doctor Geiszler <em>know</em> why he goes to Medical every third Monday, Doctor Ogawa? Does he know that’s <em>where</em> he’s going? Does he happen to sometimes go anywhere else every third Monday, do you think? Perhaps wake up somewhere he doesn’t expect?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I— I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mr. Keawe?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Keawe sighs. “They get me to bring him in,” he says. “They don’t always have me do the return trip.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Ogawa, I will once again remind you that the medical torture of a prisoner of war is a war crime.” Hermann’s voice could melt glass, could fuel rockets and level cities. Lord but he is so <em>angry</em>. That this happened. That people let this happen, participated in it, convinced themselves it was just, that it was necessary.</p>
  <p class="p1">“For God’s sake we weren’t <em>torturing</em> him! It was brain scans, not even invasive! A biopsy at worst. He wasn’t even conscious for any of it!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mr. Keawe, I assume you have the drug you were going to use on Newton?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Uh. Yeah, sure.” He picks a little sealed ziplock bag from the monitoring console.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Please prepare it and administer it to Doctor Ogawa.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Uh . . .” Keawe’s eyes dart between them, fingers tightening on the bag.</p>
  <p class="p1">“No! No, you— you wouldn’t!” Ogawa stumbles back, hits the back of her thighs on the console and has nowhere else to run. The observation area really isn’t a very large space. Four adults, including one rather sizable one, do have to be quite . . . cozy.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ve been assured it isn’t torture,” says Hermann. “You’ll be unconscious; you won’t ever even know what’s happened. And then you’ll wake up. And then we’ll come back in three weeks, and we’ll do it all again. How could you <em>possibly</em> object?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You can’t treat me like this! I—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’re right, actually,” Hermann says, voice still calm and cold and casual. “I can’t. And, more importantly, I won’t. Because it <em>is</em> wrong, and we all know it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“That <em>thing</em>—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is still a person, and still has rights, regardless of what he’s done. And, more importantly, <em>we</em> are humans. We are humane, do you understand me? I have devoted my entire adult life to fighting this godforsaken war, and the only—and I truly mean only—reason I have done so is for the preservation of humanity. Not <em>Homo sapiens</em>. Humanity. Survival is not sufficient. We must repair this ruined world, Doctor Ogawa. Do you think <em>this</em> helps us?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” says Ogawa, and looks away. From the corner of his eye, Hermann sees Keawe’s hand come up to his throat, to touch the carved crucifix that hangs there.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. When he turns, he finds Newton regarding him, expression still inscrutably alien, but not quite so stiff as before.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Ogawa is a neurologist. She’s primarily been attempting to study the physical changes in your brain,” Hermann tells him. “Apologies, I should have already shown you the reports.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s brow quirks, just slightly. “We’ve been drugged,” he says, and Ogawa gasps. It occurs to Hermann she may never before have heard him speak. “And unconscious. Not exactly ideal experimental conditions.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “Three months, I was away. Apparently it’s enough to send the entire department into chaos.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton chuckles which, all right. That’s good. Emotion is a good sign. Maybe. Hermann thinks.</p>
  <p class="p1">And then Newton is leaning sideways, just slightly. Just enough to see Ogawa, behind Hermann, and to squint and point at her and say: “You. We remember you. You gave that stupid fucking talk at NeuroCon.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” says Doctor Ogawa. “I— Uh.” When Hermann turns to look, she has gone absolutely scarlet.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is laughing, dark and sharp. “You’re the one with all the big ideas about using the Drift for”—he makes air quotes—“‘psycho-surgery’ to ‘fix,’ like, ADHD and autism and shit.” He turns to Hermann. “Can you believe it? We told her she was full of shit at the time but—” He cuts himself off, eyes gong very, very wide as he peers back around to look at the hapless doctor. “<em>That’s</em> what this is about! We wouldn’t let you poke around in our meat before so you’re doing it now!” Back to Hermann, eyes bright and voice shrill and excited. “Dude. We—you and me we, not the I-we—we are, like. <em>The</em> most neurotic people in the world who’ve ever Drifted. Cerise wanted us as, like, test subjects but obviously, uh. We, I-we, had some other shit going on, right? So we told her to fuck off. She’s still fucking mad about it!” Back to Ogawa. “We’re right, aren’t we?” Then to Hermann, without waiting for an answer. “We wanna see!” He grabs the lapels of Hermann’s jacket, shaking them. “We wanna see all her dumb shit. Can we? Pretty please? We’ll suck you dick!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” Oh dear sweet Lord, save him from the thought of it. Newton, bright eyed and manic, grinning on his knees and— “Doctor Geiszler! Th-that is— This is a professional workplace!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Pfft.” Newton makes the face to go along with the noise, although his hands unclench from Hermann’s lapels to just rest against his chest. It’s . . . both fantastic and terrible, all at once. “Since when. C’mon, man. Please please please please please—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Y-yes, yes. All right. I can—”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton makes an absolutely startling sound, a sort of high pitched <em>eeeeee</em>, and Hermann finds himself quite abruptly engulfed in a hug. “You’re the best, Hermzilla!” Then, before Hermann can process, well. <em>Anything</em> (a firm, shower-warm body and silk and wool and the pine-musk-spice of overpriced grooming products) Newton is pushing him out the door, and gesturing for everyone else to follow. “C’mon c’mon c’mon K-Science field trip awww yis! Gonna fucking <em>own</em> this shit!” Then, without taking so much as a breath: “Hey dude, we cool, right? You do a little jibby-jabby, we do a little bitey-battey, but we cool now?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Uh,” says Nurse Keawe. “Yeah, man. Sure.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Sweet. ‘Cause, like. Always wanted to tell you we love your tats, man. Pe’a?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Keawe blinks, looks at his own arm like he’s never seen it before. “Uh. I mean . . . this one? Inspired, yeah I guess.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“<em>Awesome</em>,” says Newton, and he’s off. Talking a mile-a-minute about tattoo styles, and artists, and where Keawe had his done, and how long it took, and how extensive it is and, yes. After his initial confusion, Keawe settles into the conversation, asking Newton about <em>his</em> tattoos, and then they’re both off.</p>
  <p class="p1">And Hermann and Doctor Ogawa, walking a pace and a half behind, and Hermann says, voice low: “I need you to understand; he’s doing this deliberately. Consider it your penance, mm?”</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>“Holy shit what the actual fuck?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Later, in Medical. Nurse Keawe has dropped off his no-longer-needed sedatives and escaped. Doctor Ogawa is not so lucky. Hermann has found himself a reasonably comfortable chair. And Newton? Newton has found Ogawa’s scans. The same ones she’d shown Hermann, in what seems like another lifetime.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is this what they showed you?” Newton asks him, creeping red-blue hanging in the air behind him like a grotesque halo. Then, at Hermann’s nod: “No wonder you were freaking out. Dude. Seriously. Tell me; when has anyone, <em>ever</em> spilled red ink all over a map with any intent other than to scare people?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann very pointedly does not look at Doctor Ogawa, not-quite cowering in the corner of the room. He supposes no one enjoys having one’s work checked, in front of one’s nominal boss, by a world— nay, <em>inter-dimensional</em> leader in one’s field. Who also happens to be said boss’s closest personal friend. That would very likely, as Newton would say, quote-unquote “suck unwashed ass.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann does not smirk. That would be cruel. And he is not here to be cruel.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mm?” says Hermann, which is really all the input that’s ever needed, when Newton’s on a tear.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Right,” the man in question obliges. “So, like. First of all? Ditch this shit.” He swipes several times at the display, removing the red-blue tinting from the images. “Secondly: Keep in mind we are super fucking unconscious for these, and also stoned out of our fucking meat.” To Doctor Ogawa: “We’re assuming you didn’t bother recording what they’d actually given us?” Then back: “No, okay cool cool. Whatever. So. Herminator. Using your actual, really real big boy eyes, tell us what you think you’re seeing here.” He flicks over the images, and Hermann catches them, unfolding them in front of where he’s sitting.</p>
  <p class="p1">Because, yes. For all that Newton is, as they say, a raging douchelord . . . he is, also, a consummate pedagogue. He would not be asking the question if he did not think Hermann possessed the ability to answer it.</p>
  <p class="p1">So Hermann looks. Then looks again, closer, and zooms in and switches to the next image in the progression and—</p>
  <p class="p1">“This— this is Drift damage,” he says. He knows this; free of the obfuscation of artificial coloration, it’s obvious. It’s the same pattern of damage they’d both had, after that first end. Orders of magnitude worse, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">“The thing about human meatbrains,” Newton says, “is they’re a lot more resilient than human meatbags think. The neuroplasticity of the adult human brain, including it’s ability to recover from injury, is way underrated. Thanks to a bunch of shitty pop culture science saying it can’t.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“This isn’t showing damage getting worse,” Hermann says, flicking from image to image. “It’s <em>healing</em>. That’s the change.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ding ding ding, give the good Doctor a prize!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“What—?”</p>
  <p class="p1">And , quite suddenly, Newt is crouching right in front of him, looking up into his eyes with painfully earnest sincerity. “Remember, man: I’m unconscious and fucking high in these. Don’t read too much else into them, yeah?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Erm,” says Hermann. “Y-yes. Alright.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Good chap.” Fake accent and all. Then Newton is springing back up again. “Yo, Cerise. Get over here. You wanna study xenoneurology? Right. Get you some fucking learning about how to design yourself a fucking <em>experiment</em>, man, yeah! Woo!”</p>
  <p class="p1">And Cerise Ogawa, of course, goes. What else can she do? Sucked into the vortex of Newton’s sheer, blinding passion for science, for discovery. Because, of course, he wants to <em>know</em>. Not just about the world but about himself, too. And he’s prepared to pull along in his wake anyone who wants the same, no matter their history.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Two out of two, Hermann thinks later. As far as coopting Shao’s pet scientists goes, Newton is definitely batting above the average.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>And thus, things progress.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton teaches Doctor Swadesh his language and tutors the cadets in their schoolwork and, yes, now even spends a significant time out in the lab working with Doctor Ogawa. And, in his downtime, he still practices guitar and sticks to his exercise regime and spends time with Hermann—both inside the shower block and out—and fills his cell walls with writing, extending now onto the glass, and writes in his notebooks and provides feedback on anything Hermann hands him and dear sweet <em>Lord</em> the man is exhausting. Hermann has no idea how he manages it all. Newt was always manic but he was never this focused, and if this is what it was like for him, for that whole missing decade . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord help them all.</p>
  <p class="p1">And still, Newton seems . . . happy. The presence of even the slightest sniff of pre-War military still makes him freeze and retreat, but he’ll engage freely with anyone PPDC or from academia, and with cadets having taken over guard duties, more often than not Hermann will walk in to find some random j-tech getting guitar lessons, or distraught LOCCENT staff member in the middle of advice on how to handle their teenager’s first ill-done tattoo, or something equally as bizarre. Near as Hermann can tell, the rationale is the same as the cadets’. People have not forgotten what Newton did, but nor have they forgotten who he once was, and many cling to the hope it is something he can be returned to, given the right . . . incentives.</p>
  <p class="p1">Which is to say: Newton’s petitioners all bring coffee, and the empty cups pile up.</p>
  <p class="p1">Honestly, perhaps all the caffeine goes at least some way to explaining the productivity.</p>
  <p class="p1">If so, it is not assisting Hermann, no matter how many pots of Da Hong Pao he brews and re-brews. For his part, he is working on the Throat. Or, rather . . . is supposed to be working on the Throat.</p>
  <p class="p1">They still have no way to bypass its safeguards and, for once, Newton is not helpful. Apologetic, but still; he claims the, for want of a better word, “lock” on the Throat is part of the inherent structure of the Breach, and has no idea how to unpick that, or if it can even be done (<em>it just wasn’t something we needed to do, man, sorry</em>).Honestly, as Hermann watches his umpteenth model collapse, he’s starting to think it may be the latter.</p>
  <p class="p1">His side project is faring no better. Now that he’s directing his own involvement, Newton is an enthusiastic participant in any and all medical research involving his own person, and diligently sends all results to Hermann. Meaning Hermann has more scans of Newton’s brain activity than he knows what to do with, in almost every conceivable situation; asleep, awake, playing guitar, watching horror films, watching romantic comedies, watching <em>pornography</em> (dear Lord, save Hermann from the wrath of HR), filling notebooks with Precursor scrawl, balancing chemical equations, discussing the intricacies of the Anteverse in that flat, alien register . . . Newton, near as Hermann can tell, is mapping his altered mental state, and Doctor Ogawa—after getting over her initial resentment with the tantalizing prospect of truly, utterly unique publishing opportunities—is his loyal assistant.</p>
  <p class="p1">So Hermann can pinpoint exactly how Newton’s brain changes when he’s channeling the Precursors, and what it looks like when he’s, in his own words, “synced”—that default state Hermann thinks of as simply “Newton”—and yet none of that is presenting itself as anything <em>fixable</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">There are flashes of Newt, in among the chaos. Newton doesn’t even try and hide them; eagerly pointing out when activity maps more closely to human norms. Emotional states, it seems. But, if so, ones consciously chosen; Newton is the conduit between the inner and outer worlds, and he is the one that selects whether the emotions felt by Newt are worth expressing. To say the emotions he selects are lopsided and strange is putting it mildly but, then again, Hermann supposes he . . . developed, for want of a better word, in a context of strong pretense. Playing the gormless human, with Shao, or implacable alien, with Stone. Near as Hermann can tell, Newton does not simply <em>feel</em> emotions; he thinks them. Then playacts the ones he finds useful. The level of artifice, of manipulation and control, is breathtaking.</p>
  <p class="p1">And to think, Newt always used to accuse Hermann of being repressed.</p>
  <p class="p1">And still . . . Newton does loose control. Hermann has seen him do so; most recently over the incident with Jacob. When the emotions Newt is feeling get so violently out of sync with the image Newton wants to convey, for better or for worse, the system topples. Hermann can use that, surely. Except . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">Except Newton is happy and, those few times he’s emerged, so is Newt. At peace now he’s locked safely away, perhaps. Locked away from Alice, temptations for destruction removed. Set back to square one of his scheming, a strange sort of holiday. And for all Hermann can moralize about humanity, what right does he have to destroy that? To invoke such a fundamental breakdown in a friend? Or even to strip him of what, in effect, has served as his emotional skin for the last decade? To leave him flayed and bloodied and tell him it’s for the best, because . . . why? Because Hermann misses the men neither of them have been for a decade? Because it would be easier, perhaps, to deal with a cowering, broken shell than an all-too alluring monster, one seemingly so unaffected by his crimes?</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord.</p>
  <p class="p1">So Hermann makes no progress on the Throat, and no progress on Newt, while Newton himself holds court and dazzles crowds from the confines of his cell. And it’s every nightmare Hermann has ever had, pushed aside and forgotten, useless and ineffective, awkward and broken and, more than anything else, hidden beneath the long darkness of Newton Geiszler’s rockstar shadow.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>And then, abruptly, Doctor Swadesh quits.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” she tells Hermann, sitting across from him in his office. There’s something different to her than when she arrived, something colder and harder. Confident. “But I no longer believe this project is . . . safe.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s heart clenches. “Did— If Doctor Geiszler’s done something . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">But Swadesh just shakes her head. “No. No, it’s not that. Doctor Geiszler is a . . . fascinating man. And I believe his perspective could be invaluable to the field of linguistics, going forward. I’d like to keep in contact, if you’ll permit it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Of course,” says Hermann. “I can’t guarantee anything, but I will try.” The PPDC’s official public position on Newton is still “no comment,” on everything from his involvement in the Tokyo incident to his capture to whether he ever even existed at all. They aren’t even allowing Newton mail from his father. Hermann has no idea how they’ll react to the notion of him reengaging in external academic consultation.</p>
  <p class="p1">“If Doctor Geiszler isn’t the issue,” Hermann says, “may I ask what was?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’re multilingual, if I’m not mistaken, correct?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes.” Hermann is fluent in English and German, has passable French and Cantonese and Mandarin, and a working knowledge of a handful of other languages picked up after a lifetime of living among the multinational Shatterdomes.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Does it affect you, when you switch?” Swadesh asks. “Here, you speak English. But if you spend time somewhere else, somewhere that speaks something else . . . does it change you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Very slowly, Hermann nods. “I . . . believe I understand what you mean. And yes. It does.” And, of course, it’d been Newt who’d first pointed it out, many years ago now. That the Hermann-who-spoke-English and the Hermann-who-spoke-German sometimes seemed like two entirely different men. <em>Dude, you </em>do<em> have a sense of humor!</em> Newt had shrieked, delighted, the first time Hermann had snapped something vicious at him in German. <em>I love it. Do more.</em> Because Hermann-in-English is waspish and dour, focused entirely on actions and results. Hermann in his mother tongue is more thoughtful, contemplative and, yes. Funnier. More comfortable in his own pale, scarred skin.</p>
  <p class="p1">“The grammar of the Precursors,” Swadesh is saying, “is . . . I know it sounds redundant but it is, truly, alien. It is a reflection of how they see their world, and how they see their world . . .” She looks up, as if the memory pains her. “I do not believe it is something safe for a human to understand,” she eventually says.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s eyebrows hike up very far. “That . . . that is a very serious claim,” he says.</p>
  <p class="p1">Swadesh nods. “There is a concept, in linguistics; linguistic determinism. It is the idea that one’s cognition is controlled, is shaped, is limited by one’s language.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I know of it, yes.” Hermann’s read <em>1984</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“It is, in a word, bullshit.” A little smirk. “Pop culture is enamored by the idea but it’s thoroughly academically discredited.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“For human languages,” Hermann guesses.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hard determinism is discredited but it has a . . . little brother,” Swadesh says. “Language might not determine thought but it <em>does</em> influence it, as you yourself have experienced. And I think . . . I think there are some influences humanity could do without.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann closes his eyes, exhales slowly. “Doctor Geiszler—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is aware of my concerns. He believes they are reasonable, and supports my decision.” A pause, then: “I believe he suspected them, from the outset. And I believe that, now, he has gotten from this exercise exactly the outcome he desired.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A recommendation that the Precursor’s language remain undeciphered. Too dangerous for a human to learn; a conclusion backed up by the one eminent linguist who tried.</p>
  <p class="p1">
    <em>Lord, Newton . . .</em>
  </p>
  <p class="p1">“This . . .” Hermann bites his lip, trying to decide how to phrase what he wants to ask. Eventually: “Others will try, after you.” <em>Shao will find a replacement,</em> he does not say.</p>
  <p class="p1">Swadesh nods. “It would normally go without saying but we live in strange times, so I will say it anyway: the writing itself is harmless. Without understanding its meaning, it’s nothing more than eccentric modern art. Hang it in the Tate, if you like. And I believe the structure of the language is too alien to reveal itself via textual analysis alone, regardless of the number of samples. It needs assistance from someone already fluent to truly learn.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Leaving Newton its gatekeeper, in other words.</p>
  <p class="p1">“All right,” says Hermann. “I understand. Thank you for your candor, Doctor.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Thank <em>you</em> for this opportunity,” says Swadesh. “It certainly has been . . . once in a lifetime. And I apologize I couldn’t be the bearer of a better outcome.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann waves a hand. “That’s hardly your fault.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I know,” says Swadesh, giving a small, wry smile. “But good luck all the same. Whatever happens.”</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>Some say you're troubled, boy / Just because you <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zPr_rtqwkX0">like to destroy</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. “All we can do now is knuckle down and eat the fucking omelette, y’know?”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy Labor Day everyone, have two chapters!</p><p>Also because the movie is super vague about it and so is the wiki, I'm kind of assuming Moyulan <em>is</em> the Hong Kong Shatterdome, or at least built more-or-less on the same site, for Reasons that are too Srs Bizness to get into for the purposes of this dumb fic.</p><p>Also also mild <strong>content warning</strong> that Hermann has another panic attack (at the start of the section that begins <em>There was, of course, nowhere else he was ever going to go.</em>), then indulges it's-totally-medicinal-I-swear drug use.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div><p class="p1"><a></a>Less than twenty four hours after Doctor Swadesh climbs back into a plane to America, Liwen Shao is in Hermann’s office, handing him a folder.</p><p class="p1">“I printed these out this time,” she says, archly. “So they cannot get ‘lost.’”</p><p class="p1">“What is this?” Although Hermann knows the answer the instant he sees the first printout is the CV for a doctor of neurolinguistics.</p><p class="p1">“Replacements,” says Shao. “For the Precursor translation program. Engaging a single resource was a mistake. I believe we’ll have better outcomes with a full team.”</p><p class="p1">“No.” Hermann flips the folder closed.</p><p class="p1">“‘No’?”</p><p class="p1">“I won’t allow this. You read Doctor Swadesh’s findings, as did I. She believes this exercise is dangerous and I’m inclined to agree.”</p><p class="p1">“Is this how you conduct all your research, Doctor? Giving up at the first failure?” Then, at Hermann’s expression: “My apologies. That was . . . unnecessary. But I believe you and I both know the issue was with the methodology.” She flips back open the folder, tapping the top page. “Doctor Feliz is a leader in the field of linguistic analysis via machine learning. With the right team he—”</p><p class="p1">“You don’t get told ‘no’ very often, do you, Ms. Shao?”</p><p class="p1">“All the time,” Shao says, smoothly. “I simply don’t always make it a habit to listen.”</p><p class="p1">“Let me make something extremely clear.” Hermann leans back in his chair, fingers steepled. “I cannot stop you from pursuing this on your own time with your own money, but you will not, will <em>not</em>, have K-Science’s help in chasing this nonsense. Not when we have actual, pressing concerns to divert our limited resources to instead.”</p><p class="p1">“Forgive me if I disagree in the assessment that being able to understand the language of our enemies counts as ‘nonsense.’”</p><p class="p1">“And if were were intercepting daily missives from Anteverse high command then yes, I would agree with you. But the fact is we are not. Translating this language is an academic exercise at best.”</p><p class="p1">Shao is incredulous, and Hermann knows his mistake even before she says: “You have an entire room downstairs <em>filled</em> with ‘missives from Anteverse high command.’”</p><p class="p1">“Newton’s blatherings to himself are not critical military intelligence,” Hermann snaps. “And even if they were, the fact remains that even as a prisoner he still has a right to the thoughts in his own head, including when he writes them on the bloody walls.”</p><p class="p1">“Bullshit!” Shao slams a hand onto Hermann desk. “If he’s plotting something—”</p><p class="p1">“With <em>whom</em>?” Lord help him, but Hermann’s blood is up and he can’t stop himself. He knows Shao is right. That’s the problem. He knows she’s right and he dearly, desperately wishes she weren’t.</p><p class="p1">His arguments with Newt used to be like this, too.</p><p class="p1">“With half the people on this base, potentially!” Shao says. “Thanks to you!”</p><p class="p1">“Are you— are you truly accusing PPDC staff of being <em>Anteverse collaborators</em>? Our cadets and Rangers? Our engineers? The lunch lady, perhaps?” Ironically this is, actually, something they screen for; the BuenaKai have existed for decades, after all, and do periodically try infiltration and sabotage.</p><p class="p1">“Well it would hardly be the first time, would it?” Then, before Hermann can splutter an objection: “And we have no idea how many others like him there are out there.”</p><p class="p1">“I—” Oh, Lord. She’s <em>right</em>. Hermann hadn’t even considered it, but . . . “Don’t be ridiculous.” But he’s not going to admit it. He can’t, not right now. Lord save him from his own pride.</p><p class="p1">“Ten <em>years</em> he had that . . . that thing. Who knows how many people—”</p><p class="p1">Blood in the water, and Hermann’s jaws close around the source. “Ah. And now the truth comes out. Ms. Shao, I know this may be shocking to you but the PPDC is not, actually, a resource for you to absolve your culpability and failure to recognize and intervene in Newton’s actions.” Sharp teeth, sinking into wounded flesh, real pain festering beneath the skin.</p><p class="p1">“How dare—”</p><p class="p1">“<em>Your</em> company, Ms. Shao.” He’s started, now, and he can’t stop. He never can. Never show weakness, never show mercy. Lest they see you for what you truly are. Weak. Scared. Helpless. “<em>Your</em> resources. <em>Your</em> supervision, your obliviousness, your mistakes, your—”</p><p class="p1">“I know!” Both hands slammed down, this time. “I know, damn you! People died, and it was my fault! The <em>world</em> nearly paid for <em>my</em> complacency! I live with that every day! Every. Day. So how do you think it feels? To come here, and to see <em>you</em>. Repeating my mistakes! This is how that thing <em>works</em>.” A fist, pounded against the desk. “How it gets what it wants. Plays at being eccentric and harmless and <em>useful</em>—alway so, so useful—and all the while it is <em>using</em> you! Every project we have that could possibly hurt it, could possibly bring us closer to victory, it has sabotaged! Naomi’s work, Cerise’s. <em>Everything</em> we have, to try and understand it, it now controls! <em>You</em> did that! And now it whispers doubts into the ears of the cadets, undermining our only line of defense! You. Did. That.”</p><p class="p1">“I—” There’s a pit, opening under Hermann’s heart. A Breach, a raw wound in the fabric of the world, nothing but an icy, alien void beyond.</p><p class="p1">“I know you think there’s still something of your friend in there,” Shao is saying. “I <em>know</em> you want to save him. But, Hermann please. I knew that thing for a decade. It is not your friend! Your friend is dead; he’s been dead for years. And do you really think it’s worth his legacy to— to cozy up to the monster that killed him?”</p><p class="p1">And the Breach opens, and the void spews from Hermann’s lips and what it says is:</p><p class="p1">“Get. Out.”</p><p class="p1">“I am not your enemy, Hermann! I’m trying to <em>help</em> you, protect you from—”</p><p class="p1">“I said <em>get out</em>!” He lurches to his feet, fast enough to jar, hands white-knuckled on the edge of his desk, half a second from tipping the whole thing over.</p><p class="p1">“I—” Shao takes a step back, eyes flicking up and down. At Hermann’s heaving chest and shaking limbs and at his face, contorted into a monstrous grimace of pain and rage and denial.</p><p class="p1">“All right,” says Shao, and Hermann <em>hates</em> her. Hates the pity in her eyes and the kindness in her voice. “I’ll go. Just . . . take some time, Hermann. For yourself. Away from here. You’re a good man. Listen to your heart.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann closes his eyes, tries to get his breathing under control, tries to gather the shattered pieces of his heart, and his dignity, as he listens to the sharp staccato of Shao’s heels as she walks away.</p>
<hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>There was, of course, nowhere else he was ever going to go. Not after that. But, so help him, he has to <em>see</em>. For all the things Shao was right about, he <em>knows</em> she’s wrong about this. Knows it. He thinks. He just needs to . . . to check.</p><p class="p1">There’s no one in the observation room when Hermann makes it through, limbs still shaking in rage and shame and adrenaline and he hears the guitar even before he’s stumbled into the cell. “Einstein on the Beach”, because of course Hermann had listened to it, after Swadesh had identified it.</p><p class="p1">The music stops in a discordant thunk the second Hermann tumbles into the room, leaning heavily on the wire mantrap frame. Newton is sitting alone on his yoga mat on the floor, barefooted in sweats and a tank, hair a shaggy, untamed mess. He looks . . . Lord, he looks like himself. Of course he does. What else was Hermann expecting?</p><p class="p1">“ . . . Herms?”</p><p class="p1">Hermann gets as far as the glass partition before his legs give out, and he crumples to his knees on the concrete. Lord, what is he doing here? What is he <em>doing</em>, full stop?</p><p class="p1">“Hermann!” Another hollow, wooden echo as Newt discards his guitar, not gently, lunging awkwardly to the partition. Hermann feels the thump as Newton hits the far side of it, then again as he beats on it, frustrated by its presence in a way he rarely shows. “Hermann, what—? Hey!” He half stands, pounding louder on the glass. “Hey, Baby Rangers? Anyone? Get the fuck in here!”</p><p class="p1">No one comes, of course, and Newton gives a cut-off scream in frustration. Then he’s crouching down again, peering low and trying to catch Hermann’s eyes. “Hey, man. Hey. Look at me. What happened? C’mon man what the fuck happened? You can’t do this to me, dude, not like this. C’mon. I can’t— Not when I can’t—”</p><p class="p1">Afraid. He sounds like Newt and he sounds afraid. It can’t be an act. Not all of it. It <em>can’t</em> be.</p><p class="p1">“I—” Hermann gasps, but the words won’t come. He can’t breathe, can’t speak. He clutches a hand against his chest, gets a handful of threadbare wool. Lord, it hurts. He can’t breathe and his chest hurts and he <em>can’t see</em> and—</p><p class="p1">“Oh shit, okay. Okay, uh. Fuck. Right. Herms, you gotta listen to me, man. Listen to my dumb voice, we’ll get you— one sec one sec.” More scrambling, more wood-hollow tumps, then Newt is back, back with his guitar. “All right. You’re gonna listen to this, and you’re gonna try and breathe in time with me, right? I’m just gonna go like this.” He strums something, then follows it up with a rhythmic slap to the guitar’s body. “Right? One, two, three, breathe. Gonna keep that beat with me, Hermburger?”</p><p class="p1">“Don’t— don’t call me that,” Hermann manages, in between wheezes, and Newt laughs.</p><p class="p1">“C’mon. German ex-patty, slapped between two white English buns. Totally you.”</p><p class="p1">“If either of us is— is a <em>hamburger</em> it is you, you v-vile, sloppy, pickled American.”</p><p class="p1">“You forgot cheesy,” says Newt. He’s still laughing, but there’s a sharp edge creeping back into his voice. “But nah. More of an omelette man, myself.”</p><p class="p1">“You’ve barely even been to France.” It’s working, though, the music. The stupid argument about nothing. Hermann’s breath comes too fast but the choking is gone, his heart hammers but it no longer feels like his chest is caught in a kaiju’s crushing grip.</p><p class="p1">“Persian food, actually,” Newton says. He’s still plucking at the guitar but it’s speeding up, even as Hermann’s breathing slows down. Shifts into something more purposefully melodic.</p><p class="p1">“Ah, yes. A place you’ve even less claim to.”</p><p class="p1">“Dude if we are only allowed to eat foods that come from where we do, sorry not sorry but you are <em>fucked</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“Hardly. I will eat tikka masala every day and die a contented man.”</p><p class="p1">“That’s not really from England, you know. You guys just claimed it so you could win these dumb food arguments ‘cause everything you actually eat is so disgusting.”</p><p class="p1">“I am— I am not taking <em>any</em> culinary criticism whatsoever from a man who chose to make himself a citizen of a country with an entire national holiday dedicated to eating deep fried whole turkey.”</p><p class="p1">“Technically it doesn’t <em>have</em> to be deep fried. That’s just a fun bonus extra.”</p><p class="p1">“Aerosol cheese. Aspic salad. High-fructose corn syrup. Hotdish. That abomination you call iced tea. Ambrosia. Starbucks. Oreos—”</p><p class="p1">“What’s wrong with Oreos?”</p><p class="p1">“—even your chocolate tastes like vomit. Intentionally! Your entire country should be sent to the Hague from crimes against food.”</p><p class="p1">Newton is laughing and . . . and it’s good. It’s fine. Everything is going to be . . . it’s going to be fine. Somehow.</p><p class="p1">“Man, you’ve really spent a lot of time on this, huh? Bet you have a whole itemized list somewhere, with like a scoring rubric and everything. <em>Totally Mathematically Objective Rating of the Relative Grossness of American Food</em>, by Doctor H. Gottlieb, PhD.”</p><p class="p1">“Obviously. That is obviously, of course, how I now spend my time, yes.”</p><p class="p1">“Hey, Herms?” And Newton is grinning a too-knowing grin, and it occurs to Hermann he recognizes the song being played on his guitar.</p><p class="p1">“Oh, no. Don’t you—”</p><p class="p1">“Remember this one?”</p><p class="p1">“—don’t you start. I will—”</p><p class="p1">“‘There’s a hole in your logic,’” Newton sings, voice thready and not quite on-key. “‘You who know all the answers.’”</p><p class="p1">“This wasn’t amusing this first time and it’s not the thousandth, either.”</p><p class="p1">“‘You say science ain’t ma-aa-agic. And expect me to buy-ee-ii-ee-ii it.’”</p><p class="p1">He won’t stop, of course, now that he’s started.</p><p class="p1">“‘Goodbye, Doctor G. You promised you would love us, but you knew too much. Goodbye, Doctor G.’”</p><p class="p1">And Hermann is biting back a laugh, and the panic has ebbed, a rough tide rather than a tsunami, and he shifts, sitting back to lean against the glass. Lord, it’s been a while. Newt used to sing this at him when their fights got particularly inane. When the stress left them fighting more for the sake of fighting something, anything, they could actually <em>win</em> than for any real vitriol against each other. Hermann had been shocked to learn it was an actual song, slightly tweaked in the chorus, and not just something Newt had dreamed up with the express purpose of infuriating him. Which it did, at least the first few times. Until, somehow, it’d turned from mocking to comforting; an inside joke between old friends, old comrades. Something just for them.</p><p class="p1">(And the small part of Hermann, even then, that had always secretly enjoyed the idea of being. Well. Serenaded. By Newt. No matter how ridiculously.)</p><p class="p1">And, suddenly, Hermann <em>hates</em> it. Hates this room, hates the glass and hates the cold grey concrete and the heavy steel rivets and the revolting toilet-sink and the cameras and the feeling of being watched, being recorded, all day every day and the realization <em>someone will see this</em>, his ridiculous breakdown, crumpled on the ground, Newton talking him through it. The thought of someone like Stone or Shao or General Maybe or any other one of the legion of buzzcut monsters watching this, listening to Newton sing to him, makes Hermann sick. He can’t stand it, and lurches to his feet, unsteadily, halfway through the final chorus.</p><p class="p1">“Hey, c’mon man! I know I’m rusty, but—”</p><p class="p1">But Hermann is swiping his passcard through the cell’s mantrap, punching in the override that allows both doors to open at once. Three strides and he’s through them—is <em>inside Newton’s cell</em>, <em>with Newton</em>—and before the visceral reality of it can hit him he’s grabbing the half-stood man by the arm and hauling him the rest of the way to his feet.</p><p class="p1">“Uh . . . Herms?”</p><p class="p1">“Come on, leave that.” A pause. “Or not, I don’t care.” Newton leaves the guitar next to the partition, allows himself to be walked out of the cell and into the still-empty observation room.</p><p class="p1">“Ooh, jailbreak! Nice,” he says, but there’s something new in his voice; a nervous edge Hermann realizes he hasn’t heard, not from this new Newton. “Where are we—?”</p><p class="p1">“Just follow.”</p><p class="p1">“I mean . . . you’re kind of physically dragging me by the arm, man. I don’t have much choice.” As if they don’t both know Newton could easily overpower him, if he chose.</p><p class="p1">(As if they don’t both know he nearly did.)</p><p class="p1">“Also wow dude these floors are like kinda hellaciously cold. You couldn’t’ve at least let us grab some socks?”</p><p class="p1">“You won’t need them.”</p><p class="p1">“Uh, excuse you we objectively <em>do</em> need them, right now.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann stabs the button for the elevator as if it, too, is personally responsible for his current distress. “You’ll survive.”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah but, like, if our meat gets frostbite and its feet fall off that’s, like, totally abuse of a prisoner ow, dude, who put this metal grid shit in the floor? That hurts.”</p><p class="p1">Truthfully, Hermann does actually feel a little badly for him; the Shatterdome floors <em>are</em> awful, barefoot, though they don’t have far to go. Newton fills up the entire distance with not-quite nervous chatter, though he’s also intently observing their route and surroundings. Looking for what’s familiar, for what’s new.</p><p class="p1">(<em>Planning escape routes, taking note of locked doors and cameras, HVAC systems, communications panels . . . </em>The voice sounds like Shao. Hermann tries to ignore it.)</p><p class="p1">And then, one last swipe through one last door, and—</p><p class="p1">“Holy shit! Holy motherfucking <em>shit</em>!”</p><p class="p1">—and they’re on the roof.</p><p class="p1">It is, for once, an absolutely glorious day. A bare scattering of clouds and the brilliant golden sun and the endless open blue of the sky. Newton whoops, a sound of pure joy, and bounds forward, out of Hermann’s grasp, and immediately begins to run around the space, arms outstretched and head thrown back, swinging and jumping from any and every pipe and air con unit and plant room he can find.</p><p class="p1">Hermann leaves him to it; this section of roof is small, cut off from anything important. Hermann comes here to get high, sometimes, because no one else ever does. He’s not sure even Newt ever knew about it.</p><p class="p1">Well, Newton will know now. Hermann settles himself on his usual ledge, and is about to pull out his cigarette case when a somewhat dank-smelling tank top hits him in the face.</p><p class="p1">He’s halfway through sputtering something incredulous when a pair of sweatpants follow, hitting the wall next to his head. Because, yes. Newton has apparently chosen to <em>get naked on the Shatterdome roof</em>, and is currently in the process of sprawling out on his back in the sun.</p><p class="p1">“What on Earth are you <em>doing</em>?”</p><p class="p1">“Uh, dude. Don’t know if you noticed but we’ve been locked in a fluorescent-lit box for like three-plus months. That is <em>not</em> healthy, man. Gotta get us a decent hit of Vit-Ds before someone busts your little Steve McQueen routine and sends us back.” He flops back with a truly inappropriate groan, eyes closed and smile blissful. “Aw, yis meat brain release that sweet sweet serotonin hit, baby.”</p><p class="p1">“You’ll fade your tattoos,” Hermann says, because he feels it’s the sort of thing he should.</p><p class="p1">“Aw, you do like them.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann sighs because, yes, sadly, he does. He always has; shocking and tasteless and fascinating, just like their owner. “You finished your legs,” he points out, instead of answering. Figuring he’s no longer in danger of being hit with wayward designer athleisurewear, he goes back to the task of pulling out his cigarette case.</p><p class="p1">“Yup.”</p><p class="p1">He sees Newton naked essentially every day during ablutions, but the never really talk about . . . this. Mostly because Hermann spends most of his time staring at the wall, trying desperately not to look.</p><p class="p1">He looks now. It feels . . . permitted, in a way it does not at other times. Newton showers with the stall door open because he feels he’s forbidden from doing otherwise. The few times Hermann’s walked in on him naked in his cell is because he has literally nothing to hide behind. Here, he’s shamelessly nude of his own volition. If he didn’t want to be looked at, he would’ve stayed clothed.</p><p class="p1">“Is that the Anteverse?” The main designs, curled almost lasciviously around Newton’s thighs, are Otachi and Slattern. But the stylized pattern behind them is . . . familiar, in that grotesque, memory-of-a-memory way Hermann has been trying desperately for the last decade to forget.</p><p class="p1">“Yup.” Then, accompanied with a particularly childish grin: “The Breach is my asshole!”</p><p class="p1">“Charming.”</p><p class="p1">Newton just laughs. Then stops, bolting upright, at the click of Hermann’s lighter. He actually has the gall to <em>gape in shock</em> as Hermann lights up, and Hermann stares back at him for his troubles, defiant.</p><p class="p1">“Holy shit is that a joint?”</p><p class="p1">“Close enough.” Muttered around said item.</p><p class="p1">“Holy shit. Holy motherfucking shit. Are we dead? Did we trip on a Breach and fall into an alternate Earth? Because we can’t actually imagine what other explanation there would be for Hermann freakin’ Gottlieb staging a jailbreak to sneak up and get high on the roof in the middle of a workday. Since when do you even smoke?”</p><p class="p1">“Since university,” says Hermann, because it’s true.</p><p class="p1">“Dude. Why did we never know this?”</p><p class="p1">“I never wanted you to.” To prevent exactly this reaction, in fact, back in the days when Hermann had, as Newt might say, “given more shits.” Middle age may bring may ills but cures may more; that being one of them.</p><p class="p1">“And it’s actually—” Newton inhales, big and exaggerated. “It’s actually pot. You are actually deadass getting stoned at work.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s medicinal.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, sure. You got a prescription for that, then?”</p><p class="p1">“I can have, if needs be.”</p><p class="p1">Newton laughs, bright-eyed and earnestly joyful.</p><p class="p1">“Also, it’s technically Saturday.”</p><p class="p1">“We’re sure that’ll go down <em>amazingly</em> well when the Marshal asks why you were blazin’ it when you were supposed to be supervising the dangerously unconfined genocidal alien.”</p><p class="p1">“In the event you can, actually, pull kaiju out of your naked ‘Breach’ I’m sure you’ll enjoy the ‘I told you so’ while you’re busy having them stomp me into paste.”</p><p class="p1">Newton settles back down onto his elbows, apparently now far more interested in watching Hermann get high than enjoying the sunlight. “Nah,” he says. “We’d put you in a kaiju-chitin bikini and keep you as our sexy human concubine.”</p><p class="p1">“Surely, my bony, withered arse will make you the envy of evil overlords the multiverse over.” It’s just words, Hermann tells himself. Just a game, nothing to feel hurt over. Not because of the—patently ridiculous—scenario, but the joke that this version of Newton, lean and toned and obviously tremendously invested in his appearance, could ever look at Hermann and truly think . . . that.</p><p class="p1">Except Newton just narrows his eyes and tilts his head and says: “So, like. We’ll admit our sample size isn’t exactly huge, but so far we’re averaging a hundred percent on our ‘humans who think Doctor Gottlieb is a sex bomb’ survey.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, well. Mathematical modeling never was your strong suit.” He looks away, ready to blame the flush in his cheeks on the sun or the pot or . . . or <em>anything</em> other than this conversation.</p><p class="p1">Newton just makes a thoughtful sort of sound, regarding Hermann in quiet contemplation in a way Newt never would have. Then:</p><p class="p1">“He used to hate his own meat, you know? <em>Hated</em> it; like, we’re talking real, actual mental distress. Tears and shit, if he thought about it too much. Part of the reason he wanted to cover it up. It was incredibly stupid. And distracting, and inefficient. So we fixed it.”</p><p class="p1">That . . . huh. Hermann does not quite know what to make of that. When he looks back, Newton is grinning and, at Herman’s regard, throws out his arms as much as he can while still resting on the elbows. “So. Thoughts?”</p><p class="p1">Hermann swallows, mouth suddenly incredibly dry. “I . . . am not the person to ask,” he says. “Given my affection for the previous model.” Safe enough to admit. Newt had known, at the end.</p><p class="p1">Today, Newton tilts his head, smile falling into something soft. “Aw, Herms. You’re sweet, you know that?”</p><p class="p1">“I assure you, I most certainly am not.”</p><p class="p1">Which earns him another laugh, and a rather deft maneuver as Newton flips himself back to his feet. When he comes over, Hermann has one heart-stuttering moment of <em>what if</em> but . . . but he’s only retrieving his clothing.</p><p class="p1">“Enough skin cancer for one day?”</p><p class="p1">“Sun’s good, burns not so much. We got our fix, keep off the SADs for another few months.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann sighs, takes another drag off his blunt, leans back against the wall behind him, eyes closed. Listens to the sound of Newton getting re-dressed, the <em>whuff</em> of displaced air as he sits himself down next to Hermann after he’s done so.</p><p class="p1">“So,” he says. “Now that you’re no longer staring right at our junk, and we can have a proper big boy chit-chat . . . you wanna talk about earlier?”</p><p class="p1">Does he? No. Will he?</p><p class="p1">Why the sodding fuck not.</p><p class="p1">“I’d had a rather large row,” he says, eyes still closed. “About you. It affected me more that I’d anticipated.”</p><p class="p1">“Figured it’d be something like that.” Newton shifts, perhaps stretching out to prop his feet on the balustrade. “With who?”</p><p class="p1">“Whom. Liwen Shao.”</p><p class="p1">“Row with Shao.” Newton rolls it around in his mouth. “Lemme guess: She’s got a Cat-V-sized martyr complex after we dicked her over for a decade and she’s projecting it onto you?”</p><p class="p1">“Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes.”</p><p class="p1">“<em>And</em> she’s mad about Naomi.”</p><p class="p1">“And Doctor Ogawa, if we’re going down the list.”</p><p class="p1">“Bet she has a kanban for it in her office: the Newton Geiszler Grievance Board. With a daily scrum and sprint retrospectives and everything.” Then, because apparently this is dredging up bad memories: “Fuck, Hermann. Never work private sector, man. The amount of sheer fucking pretty <em>garbage</em>. It’s un-fucking-real. We once had a six fucking hour meeting because some dickwads wanted to change the icons on the biweekly C-suite traffic light reports, and some other dickwads didn’t want them to. And at the end of it they <em>still</em> hadn’t come to a fucking conclusion. And that sort of shit happened, like, <em>regularly</em>. It was enough to make anyone crazy enough to want to destroy the fucking planet.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann snorts, not quite laughter. “Is that your formal defense, then?”</p><p class="p1">“Well it certainly didn’t fucking endear you to us any!” But when Hermann rolls his head to look, Newton is grinning. Wry and dark, but a grin all the same.</p><p class="p1">“She’s not a bad woman,” Hermann sighs. “Shao. She . . . she means well.”</p><p class="p1">“Hermann, we say this as a card-carrying member of the Evil Overlord Club: Liwen Shao is a disaster capitalist war profiteer who makes herself billions off exploitative labor practices, environmental degradation, and selling giant death robots. And she sleeps at night because she tells herself that’s just the way the world works, and if she wasn’t doing it someone worse would, and also she deserves it all because she works so hard and is so clever, and it has nothing at all to do with how hard Daddy used to suck CCP cock, and anyway besides she shaves a teeny tiny fraction of a tax-deductible percentage off her profit to throw at glossily branded ‘charities’ that turn around and spend that money on hiring overpriced McKinsey grads to come in and write PowerPoint decks about how to make even <em>more</em> money selling governments ‘fixes’ to the problems her own company is causing in the first place.”</p><p class="p1">A beat as Hermann digests this, then: “Are you sure it’s Shao who’s the one with the Grievance Board?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh you’ve seen my Grievance Board, Herms. It almost annihilated the PPDC and destroyed half of Tokyo, kinda hard to miss.” Which, fair enough. “But my point here is that it doesn’t actually <em>matter</em> if Liwen Shao is a ‘good person’ who ‘means well.’ And, y’know what? Sure. Not my experience but I’ll take your fucking word it; great fucking lady, give her a gold star. That <em>still</em> doesn’t mean the planet wouldn’t be better off without her, and people like her.” Back to single pronouns again; this is Newt talking. And it isn’t even that Hermann didn’t know he felt this way; it’s what had made his accepting the Shao Industries job in the first place so strange.</p><p class="p1">“That whole system is fucking rotten, man,” Newton adds. “Why do you think we chose it? Half the exec suite is incompetent, the other half is insane, no one gives a shit about anything other than where their next yacht is coming from or which president they’re snorting coke off a hooker with next week, and everyone in the cube farm is too fucking terrified of getting evicted and their families starving and figure everywhere else is fucking <em>worse</em> so there’s no point doing anything but keeping their heads down and not saying shit. It’s just crap piled on top of crap. Go in with at least a half-assed work ethic, the ability to bullshit with a straight face, and absolutely no fucking sense of standard human morality and you can get away with fucking <em>anything</em>. Case in fucking point.”</p><p class="p1"><em>Well,</em> Hermann thinks. <em>That certainly clears some things up.</em></p><p class="p1">“I gather you had fun on your little secondment, then?” Then, without waiting for a reply beyond Newton’s derisive snort: “So what changed?”</p><p class="p1">“Besides getting punched in the fucking face and locked in a box for three months? And, yanno. Getting fired. We’re assuming. We’ve kind of been taking that as a given since the whole gun thing.”</p><p class="p1">And Hermann says: “When Ranger Namani asked you why you were helping us, you told her the answer ‘wasn’t for her.’”</p><p class="p1">A pause, then: “Yeah. We did do that.”</p><p class="p1">Because they’re outside. They’re alone. No one is watching, or listening, or recording. Very likely, no one even knows they’re here.</p><p class="p1">So: “Newton. Why are you helping us?”</p><p class="p1">And Newton says:</p><p class="p1">“Because it occurred to us we didn’t want to die.” A pause then. “Well, uh. That’s the tl;dr version.”</p><p class="p1">“And the ‘quite long; still read’ one?”</p><p class="p1">And now it’s Newton’s turn to exhale, long and slow, and lean back against the building. “So, okay. First off, I’m guessing you’ve kind of figured by now we don’t have the concept of a first person singular pronoun?”</p><p class="p1">“I had suspected as much, yes. I’d assumed the hive mind?”</p><p class="p1">“Oh. Hah.” Newton shifts, runs a hand through his hair. “No, man. The hive is the kaiju. It’s like . . . it’s like you use the internet, but the internet isn’t <em>you</em>, right?”</p><p class="p1">“All right.”</p><p class="p1">“So we’re, like. Different again. It’s hard to explain, but . . . like, one single platelet or melanocyte doesn’t, like, consider itself its own entity. It’s just part of <em>you</em>. You’re the important part; your cells die, they get replaced. You don’t care, they don’t care. It just . . . is. We’re like that. We have functions and know we’re not, like, each other, but the way we work we’re sort of . . .” He pushes his hands together, fingers meshing. “The more of us there are in one place the more mashed up it all gets. We all know what we all know, if one of us dies then everything they are is also what everyone else is. So why does it matter?”</p><p class="p1">To Hermann, of course, this sounds rather like a hive mind. But arguing seems futile, and the texture of it does seem different to the vague flashes he recalls from the kaiju. And so he merely nods with a, “All right.”</p><p class="p1">“So thanatophobia . . . that’s not a natural emotion for us. One cell dying doesn’t matter; the Flesh endures. The Harvest continues. All that shit. But thinking like that? That’s not natural for a human. For a human, that’s fucking terrifying. So . . . <em>kttch</em>.” He gestures with his hands, holding them parallel then shifting one up and one down. Out of alignment. “When we had access to Alice, we could just . . . <em>bzzapt</em>, little pick-me-up, back on track”—the hands shift back to the same level—“not a problem. Always took a little while to get thrown back off again. I mean, there was other shit going on, too, but that was part of it, y’know?”</p><p class="p1">The hands drop. “And then . . . We’re here. And, like. Basically the only thing we have is time to sit alone with our thoughts. And those thoughts are <em>his</em> thoughts, and for the first time we start really thinking—kinda more like spiraling, actually, with like no way to pull out—but thinking about what the fuck we thought was going to actually happen if things had, y’know. Worked. Like, the kaiju pour through and juice the planet to slime and HQ slurps it all up and . . . well. That’d be us, too, right? And because we’re thinking <em>his</em> thoughts he’s pointing out that the whole”—the meshed fingers again—“isn’t gonna fly. We’re not Flesh. We’re <em>anathema</em>. We’re cancer; worse than humanity because we’re <em>dangerous</em>. They’re not gonna take us back, any part of us. All that suffering, all that death . . . ten years of plotting and scheming because we didn’t know any other way to exist and it was making <em>him</em> miserable and it was making us miserable and he kept telling us, <em>screaming</em> at us, no matter how many times we tried to burn him out, to shut him up, that we didn’t have to do this, any of this, there was no point, it just hurt us and it hurt everyone else and we just. Didn’t. Have to. And even if we managed it, in the end? What did it get us? Even if we won we’d still be dead. And we knew, because <em>he</em> knew, that when we’re dead, we’re just . . . dead. And, for the first time, we realized we didn’t want it. We didn’t want <em>any</em> of it. And we had no way to . . . un-realize that. Without Alice.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh,” says Hermann.</p><p class="p1">Newton sighs. “So we stopped fighting him. We’d always told him he was weak and he <em>is</em>, except har har joke’s on us because that didn’t matter, in the end. We didn’t want to die and he didn’t want to hurt and so we just . . . stopped it. All of it. And meanwhile, we’re getting hauled out to interrogations and worse shit, and we’re thinking . . . Okay. Okay. We know things they want to know. We can help. Defecting is unthinkable to the Flesh but <em>he</em> can think this thought, <em>we</em> can do this thing. Humans do it all the fucking time. But we also figure the second we talk, the second they think we’re no longer useful—”</p><p class="p1">“You’d be executed,” Hermann finishes.</p><p class="p1">Newton throws his hands up, lets them drop back down to his thighs. “So . . . catch-22, right? And as we’re grappling with that, Fate smiles upon us and sends us a beautiful, sexy, frog-faced grandpa-ass mathematician and we’re like, well shit. At least now if we’re getting shot we’re getting shot after making Herms look like the fucking Precursor Whisperer. That’s something. We can, y’know. We can be okay with that.”</p><p class="p1">“Newton . . .”</p><p class="p1">“Figure you kinda know the rest, hey.”</p><p class="p1">Lord. What . . . what does he <em>do</em> with all of that? What could anyone possibly do?</p><p class="p1">“I—” he starts, then swallows, mouth dry, the enormity of it all rearing up before him, charcoal grey and glowing neon blue, dripping grime and void. “Why <em>me</em>?” is what comes out. “All this . . . why me?”</p><p class="p1">And Newton just turns, twisting his torso towards Hermann, and tilts his head and says:</p><p class="p1">“Dude. We didn’t think we were being particularly subtle about it, but, like. We love you. We always have.”</p><p class="p1">It feels like a punch in the gut, a blade in the heart, like fingers around his throat. Hermann’s hand comes up to his mouth to choke back a sob and, suddenly, despite the fact he stubbed out the last of his blunt while Newton was talking, Hermann has never felt so sober in his <em>life</em>.</p><p class="p1">Newton is saying:</p><p class="p1">“We know you have, like. This Regan MacNeil model in your head about how this all goes; like you’re gonna come in and by the power of rock compel him and his head’s all gonna spin round and the Precursors will all vomit out and everyone’ll party like it’s 2025. But we keep telling you you gotta check your math, dude. Gotta, like, not take things people scream at you in the middle of a mental health episode so literally. Like, you install an alien operating system all your My Docs are still there, even if some of the files aren’t so easy to open any more. This is that. Because the shitty thing is, man. All of this?” He gestures to himself, to Hermann, to the world. “It’s only ever been just me. That’s all there is up here.” A tap on the side of his temple. “All the broken bits, the awful edges, the replaced parts, the self-justifying rationalizations... They’re still just me. Just Newt.”</p><p class="p1">“Oh, Lord,” breathes Hermann.</p><p class="p1">Newton sighs. “And, at the risk of mixing too many metaphors: Sorry dude, but those eggs do not get un-cracked. All we can do now is knuckle down and eat the fucking omelette, y’know?”</p><p class="p1">And Hermann . . . it’s too much. He can feel the claws closing in on his lungs again, can feel the shattered remnants of his heart, seizing on the laboratory floor. And Newton—Newt, Newton, whomever—is so close and so warm and so alive and a voice in Hermann’s head whispers <em>this is how that thing works, this is how it gets what it wants</em> and he’s can’t. He just <em>can’t</em>. He’s so tried, so sick of this, feeling like he’s standing on the edge, staring down into lightning-ringed oblivion, checking and re-checking his maths, second-guessing every equation. He wants it to end. How does it end? To close the Breach, bypass the Throat. To take the war to them, face down impossible odds and unbelievable scenes, to go big or go extinct. To finally, somehow, after all this time, <em>stop</em>. To just stop. All of it.</p><p class="p1">He’s been silent for too long, and Newton says: “ . . . Hermann?”</p><p class="p1">And ten years ago Newt looks at him with: <em>Fortune favors the brave, dude.</em></p><p class="p1">And Hermann does the only thing he can, and learns forward, wraps a hand around Newton’s throat, and kisses him.</p></div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>... dun dun duuuuuun.</p><p>  <a href="https://orphaned.monster/dat/289/">DISPLAYS "END OF PART 1" TITLE CARD.</a></p><p>  <em>We dropped down from some other dimension <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LSgz7Ept79o">just to be with you</a>.</em></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. “If we go in, we need to be prepared for nothing less than xenocide.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>So, if Hermann’s a fool, so be it. If the world suffers for it, let them write as much on his salted grave. But if he’s not? If he can, perhaps, seek to repair this one small thing? Who would he be if he didn’t at least try?</p>
  <p class="p1">Marshal Stone is surprisingly easy to persuade; honestly, Hermann is starting to think he’s getting rather fed up with the whole affair. The role of Marshal was never an easy one, and if what Hermann suspects is true, then Stone’s loyalties are more divided than many of his predecessors. Being torn in all directions, by ravenously devouring outside interests, by the fate of the world, by the fate of his men, cannot make for a sound night’s sleep. Hermann does not pity him, exactly—Stone’s choices are his own—but . . . still.</p>
  <p class="p1">(“Stop. Herms, stop, please,” Newton had begged him, on the roof, not quite pushing away. As if he couldn’t quite bear to leave Hermann’s embrace, regardless of his words. He’d been shaking violently, face flushed and eyes impossibly wild, and Hermann’s concern must have shown because he’d said: “We’re okay. We’re okay. We’re not, like. Not gonna have another episode on you. We’re just not . . . We just need some time to . . . to resync. We’re not used to this. Feeling like this.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Like what?” Hermann had asked, and the smile he’d gotten in response had been blinding.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Happy.”)</p>
  <p class="p1">So Hermann presents his case, and Stone acquiesces, and the rules he lays down are relatively mild, all things considered.</p>
  <p class="p1">The second part is to enlist help. Hermann goes to the cadets, because they are young and strong, and because they (somehow) respect him and because what he’s trying and what they’re trying align. So they spend the morning helping him raid the basement and move furniture and get things set up to his specifications. The piano—long since quietly returned as per Hermann’s, ahem, request—is the most gut-wrenching, if only because it is heavy and awkward and Hermann knows how much it means. It is delivered into place without so much as a scratch.</p>
  <p class="p1">(Pentecost and Lambert, of course, just sigh and roll their eyes and tell him they hope he knows what he’s doing. Hermann doesn’t bother to inform them that, of course, he still does not. They would only worry.)</p>
  <p class="p1">When it is done, when all the furniture is in place and the pillows straightened and the bookshelves aligned, Hermann is struck for a moment with how . . . paltry it seems. Small. Shabby. He has a moment of humiliated panic, standing in the middle of his newly rearranged living room. Then tells himself to stop being ridiculous, to man up, and goes, for the last time, down to see Newton.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>“Dude. You’re, like, stupid-late. Is everything okay?” Because it’s after noon, and this is the first time Hermann has been down here today. And Newton isn’t angry about the change, about being denied his morning walk and shower; he’s worried.</p>
  <p class="p1">In lieu of an answer, Hermann simply opens the inner doors, and steps through. He’s holding some battered, old, oversized IKEA bags and he hands them to Newton when he approaches. “Pack up,” Hermann says. “Everything you want to bring.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Uh. Sure, okay?”</p>
  <p class="p1">It doesn’t take long; a pile of clothes in one bag, pillow and towel and yoga mat and assorted miscellanea in another. Hermann carries the guitar, Newton throws his duvet over his shoulders like an exhausted exam-week student, on the hunt for midnight caffeine. By the time they leave, the cell is as barren and empty as when Hermann first saw it. Albeit somewhat more graffitied.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton follows Hermann to the dorm blocks in his newfound silent contemplation. They’re both greeted as they pass, the Shatterdome’s residents now used to seeing them walking the halls together, and Newton even makes some small talk with his past petitioners.</p>
  <p class="p1">And then it’s over, and they’re standing in front of Hermann’s door.</p>
  <p class="p1">“This is my flat,” Hermann says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Scored an upgrade, Doctor G?” The dorm blocks haven’t changed much and Newton will know they’re in a section formerly reserved for families and senior staff. No housing in the ‘Dome is luxurious, per se, but the apartments up here are at least slightly more spacious than the dingy, one room shoeboxes they’d inhabited for most of the War.</p>
  <p class="p1">“My reward for saving the world,” Hermann remarks, wryly, and opens the door.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s flat is two bedrooms, one bathroom, one combined kitchenette-living area. Despite everything he still doesn’t spend much time here, meaning he’d never particularly bothered furnishing it beyond the utilitarian, institutional-style items it’d come with. Not until this morning, at least, when a small army of cadets had moved in things of Newton’s; an armchair and loveseat, a table, a rug, some art, some shelves, and—</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude. Is that Opa’s piano?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes.” Suddenly awkward, Hermann strides over to open the door to the second bedroom, formerly an office he has, until this morning, used as junk storage. “This is your room.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“And my Hellraiser! Dude, what—?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You are not to leave these quarters unless escorted,” Hermann says, because those are the Marshal’s orders. “And must stay on the base, and away from any electronics, ICT systems, the Jaeger, and all deployable materiel. Also I would please request you do not write on my walls and keep your awful music to a tolerable level and <em>mmfft</em>—”</p>
  <p class="p1">Because Newton has dropped his bags, and thrown himself at Hermann for a kiss.</p>
  <p class="p1">It’s still awkward. They still aren’t used to one another and Hermann is years out of practice (and he suspects Newton may be as well). But they try; Hermann tilts his head down and softens his mouth and enjoys the feeling of Newton’s warm, firm body pressed up against his own. Newton is still hesitant to fully embrace him, and Hermann’s hands are full, and everything is over far-too quickly when Newton starts to shake again and has to break away with a quiet “fuck” he buries against Hermann’s chest. Hermann places a few chaste kisses against his temple and waits for him to work through whatever he’s working through.</p>
  <p class="p1">Eventually:</p>
  <p class="p1">“This . . . this is real, right? This is really what we think it is? We get . . . you’re letting us stay with you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Fuck.” A pause, something that might even be a sniff. Then: “We thought we’d die in there, you know?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I know.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“And the stupidest part? Like, basically the only thing we can think right now is how great it will be to actually enjoy taking a good, long crap without it being recorded for fucking posterity.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“One must always remember to enjoy the little things in life,” Hermann says, and gets a blurted half-laugh for his efforts.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Surprisingly little changes, at least for Hermann. He hasn’t lived in a shareflat since university but Newton is a suspiciously unobtrusive roommate, possibly because he’s still half-terrified Hermann will send him back to the cell if he isn’t. He’s also irritatingly neat, and calls Hermann “Cyclone Gottlieb” in turn, and they spend a good ten minutes in a good-natured argument about whose fault all that happens to be. Also the use of the bathroom, at least for a day or so, until they start falling into the beginnings of a more comfortable routine.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann begins taking them both into the lab, mostly because he still does, in fact, have work to do and so does Newton, and they may as well be doing it somewhere together. Newton still isn’t permitted to actually touch anything—a prohibition he largely abides by—meaning instead he spends a great deal of time looming over Hermann’s shoulder (metaphorically, if not physically) and is fascinated by the aspects of his own former specialties Hermann has picked up over the decade. Unsurprisingly—and now cleared of... other concerns—he’s especially interested in Hermann’s work on converting Kaiiju Blue into a fuel source, and they get into an idle argument over the safety-cum-necessity of growing more, given its current status as a limited resource. Newton is certain he could engineer a version even more combustible than standard Blue, with less negative environmental impacts, and that meanders into a good, old-fashioned, screaming row over combustion versus metabolic efficiency (<em>Biotechnology is just so much more </em>efficient<em>, dude! That’s always Earth’s problem!)</em> that ends when Ranger Lambert runs into the room, apparently ready to throw another punch.</p>
  <p class="p1">Once he’s been suitably chewed out and sent away, Newton gets a little still and clipped and strange in the way he now does, but assures Hermann he’s fine when asked, just “re-syncing.” Lambert even comes back some time later with an apology coffee and a, “I mean . . . everyone’s heard stories. But it’s really something else to see it in person.”</p>
  <p class="p1">On the third day, Hermann is halfway through brushing his teeth when a knock on their front door results in a stilted, “Wow. Awkward,” from Newton then, louder: “Yo, Hermavore. Visitor.” By the fact this is immediately followed by the sound of Newton’s own door slamming, Hermann is fairly confident he knows who’s outside.</p>
  <p class="p1">Of course, he’s currently in his own bathroom, wearing a towel, with no clothes bar the pajamas he’d idly thrown into a corner. So he sighs, pulls on pants and a bathrobe (Newton’s), and goes out to face Liwen Shao.</p>
  <p class="p1">“This is not what I meant,” she tells him, as soon as he emerges. “Honestly, I did not believe it when people told me.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is there a particular reason your incredulity had to be expressed with a social call at sparrow’s fart,” he snaps, hand tightening on the back of Newton’s (obnoxiously comfortable) recliner, “or were you just hoping to catch us out? As if I might <em>lie</em> to you, had you visited during office hours?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” Shao looks away, and Hermann has his answer. She’s studying his living room, noting how much of the contents do not belong to him. “I see how it will be,” she finally says.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, frustrated. “No, I do not think you do.” He forces his voice into some semblance of softness. “Ms. Shao, do not think I have disregarded everything from our conversation. That I believe your . . . understanding of the situation is imperfect does not mean I feel your opinions have no value.” There. Olive branch extended.</p>
  <p class="p1">Shao nods, though her lips are thin, and she still won’t meet his eyes. “I should go,” she says, after a moment. “Marshal Stone is asking for a meeting, on the status of penetrating the Throat.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ll be sure to check my spam folder, this time,” Hermann says, and gets the barest twitch of a smile for his efforts.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Have a good day, Hermann.” A small, not-quite bow. Then she’s gone, door clicking quietly closed behind her.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann spends a good few breaths staring at the ceiling (one of the halogens has blown, he notes; he should report that to Property), then goes to knock on Newton’s door.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yeah, come in.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s room is blisteringly hot, thanks to a small space heater, and smells powerfully <em>male</em>; musk and sweat and Hermann’s prick stirs from it, just a little. Then a little more at Newton himself, dressed only in a pair of black, skin-tight, extremely short shorts that somehow manage to seem even more indecent than if he were nude. He’s currently bent into some highly precarious yoga pose, sweating and trembling slightly from the exertion of it, and giving Hermann an excellent view of his arse, which is appreciated. The fact that he immediately snaps, “She wants to fuck you,” is somewhat less so.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann leans against the doorframe and sighs. He sincerely doubts this assessment, but: “Then she’s setting herself up for endless disappointment.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton shifts out of his stance, through several more that leave him standing, facing Hermann. “You sure? That’s some prime fucking beef you’d be leaving on the table, there.” There’s a darkness in his eyes as he says it; a deranged, manic, wildness.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton . . .” Hermann tested the waters with women in his youth, found them not to his taste, and has spent his entire adult sexual and romantic life (such as it has been) in the company of men. It’s nothing he’s made particularly secret, and Newt has known it from their letter-writing days. This is just him being obnoxious.</p>
  <p class="p1">The warning tone seems to work, and Newton blinks, gives an almost imperceptible shudder, and . . . recalibrates himself, is the only way Hermann can think of it. Then he looks away. “Sorry, man. That was . . .” His fists clench and unclench. “Sorry. She gets to us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The room is not big, and Newton is standing close enough to touch. So Hermann does so, placing a hand on the hot, damp skin of a heaving pictorial, pressing closer to claim a sweat-salt kiss.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton does not resist, though he does mumble, “Dude. We are, like. So gross right now,” into Hermann’s lips.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann inhales, deep and intent, and steps closer, pressing their bodies together. Because it pleases him and he can. Because of the way Newton’s eyes flutter closed and his lips part and head tilts up. “I can work with that.” Kissed into Newton’s neck, thrown back with a groan to allow it. Hermann bites, just a little bit; he thinks he’ll probably always have something of an obsession with Newton’s neck now, after everything, but the man himself isn’t complaining. His breath is coming faster and he’s growing hard in his little shorts, rutting almost unconsciously against Hermann’s good hip, as his hands hover awkwardly at Hermann’s biceps.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s own hands are busy exploring the slick skin of Newton’s back, digging into firm flesh. “It’s all right,” he murmurs, kissed across Newton’s jaw. “You can touch.” Something Newton’s hesitant to take on his own. The memory of violence, perhaps. Fear of a rejection or a flinch.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton makes a very inarticulate sound, and Hermann bites it off by sucking a lower lip between his own. Then his tongue, pressing forward, over freshly brushed teeth, into the warm, welcoming wet of Newton’s mouth. Finally, Newton’s hands settle, against his chest. Pushing beneath the decadently plush robe. He brushes a fingernail against Hermann’s nipple, almost experimentally, and Hermann rewards him with a groan, receives a hitching whimper in return.</p>
  <p class="p1">They end up propped against the door jamb, mostly for Hermann’s benefit, kissing messy and open-mouthed like teens. Newton’s pulled open Hermann’s robe and is exploring his chest with enthusiasm, tracing thick, strong fingers across every too-prominent rib and in the soft hollow of Hermann’s too-thin belly. Hermann’s own hands are enthusiastically working Newton’s arse, kneading and encouraging the roll of his hips as he ruts shamelessly against Hermann.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann is furiously hard himself, the way their bodies are slotted together not quite right for him to get anything other than the barest of pressure. Nothing like what he wants. So he slides a hand around Newton’s hip, between strong, thick thighs and—</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton gasps, body jerking. “Fuck,” he mutters.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s okay. It’s okay. We can just . . .” He’s shaking again, Hermann realizes, and not in the good way. “Keep going. You want it. It’s okay.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. In compassion, not frustration. He moves his hands to the small of Newton’s back and tries to get his blood simmered down to something slightly below boiling. “No, darling,” he says. “Not if you’re not ready.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Fuck.” Newton buries his face into the crook of Hermann’s neck, fist balling against his chest. “<em>Fuck</em>!” Punctuated with a punch to the painted metal doorjamb.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That,” Hermann says, “looked like it hurt.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Fucking <em>meat</em>,” Newton snarls, and Hermann shushes him, hands rubbing soothingly down his back. “It’s not like we don’t know how to fuck. We’re not a fucking <em>virgin</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann has rather gotten the impression the physical aspects of the act aren’t the problem; they’ve reached this point a few times since that first day on the roof, sometimes further along, sometimes not. Hermann doesn’t pretend to understand exactly what’s going on inside Newton’s scrambled brain when he gets like this but, then again, perhaps that’s not his role here.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Come on,” he says, pushing them both gently away from the wall. “You should shower. You do rather stink, and I’m not sure the rest of the Shatterdome will be as appreciative as I am.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton snorts, and won’t meet Hermann’s eyes, but allows himself to be used for support as they make their way back into the living room. “We’ll fix this,” he spits, as Hermann pushes gently into the bathroom. “Fucking . . . traitorous meat.” He’s looking at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fingers like claws.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann kisses him on the temple. “Give it time,” he says. “And be kind to yourself.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Another dark little snort, and Hermann leaves him to it, fingers trailing gently down a clenched bicep as he pulls away.</p>
  <p class="p1">The he retreats into his own room, and towels himself off with the robe until he hears the bathroom door close.</p>
  <p class="p1">Then he falls against the wall, and furiously pulls off, muffling frustrated gasps against his fist.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann takes Newton to the meeting with Stone; something he will never ever admit he does largely to aggravate Shao for her early morning visit. Pentecost and Lambert are also in attendance, as their two remaining senior Rangers; Lambert and Newton seem to have made a kind of peace with each other, but Hermann suspects Pentecost’s acceptance will not come so easy, if ever at all. Still, he’s pragmatic enough to know a resource when he sees one, and forces a tightly furious civility for the sake of the cause. Shao, meanwhile, sits physically as far away from Newton as possible, will not look at him, and her fists remain clenched in her lap the entire time. It isn’t just guilt or distaste, Hermann realizes; she’s viscerally, physically afraid, and the thought does make him feel somewhat contrite. Newton, for his part, drinks his awful coffee and plays with a fidget spinner he found Lord-knows-where, and has generally retreated into the unsettling, expressionless, too-still boredom he affects in situations he dislikes, around people he does not want to interact with. And Stone, in keeping with every Marshal before him, just looks tired.</p>
  <p class="p1">So this will probably go well, then.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I need <em>something</em>,” Stone says. “Something to bring to the Council. People want options, Hermann.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton makes a soft sound of disgust, though Hermann doesn’t know whether it’s from the request or the form of address or both.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann has come prepared with models and a summary of the work he’s been attempting on the Throat, the difficulties he’s having with the unlock. Newton has seen everything he’s presenting before, but nonetheless listens with quiet intensity. Shao looks frustrated and most everyone else lost, and eventually Hermann gets to, “ . . . there are some other avenues I could explore but, quite honestly, at the current time nothing is looking promising.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“So you’ve got nothing, in other words,” says Stone.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” Hermann considers this. “This work is tremendously difficult in the abstract,” he finally says. He’s guessing every constant he’s working with, and on this one Newton has not been able to help (<em>we didn’t study physics, dude, sorry</em>). “Data on the Throat’s far side remain scant. It’s possible there are universal properties in the Anteverse that would assist in the stabilization but at this stage we have no way of knowing what they are.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Without opening a Breach to look,” Shao says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That would be incredibly dangerous,” Hermann points out. “Even at the micro scale. And, regardless, the problem of the Throat remains; we still could not get a probe past it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We could grow you one,” Newton says, and practically the whole room jumps. “If you’re this intent on suicide.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, the Precursors have decided to grant us their wisdom,” Stone mutters. Newton ignores him.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You don’t believe there’s a safe way to open a Breach,” Hermann translates, for the benefit of the room.</p>
  <p class="p1">“No. We’d know you opened it, and our attentions would shift to this Earth. The time you’ve bought yourselves will be lost.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And, of course, the is the <em>other</em> reason Newton is here. His very human emotional responses to Hermann make it difficult for him to, in his words, “go deep”; to access those files the Drifts left behind, but that he has trouble conceptualizing in a human mindset. They’re both hoping the current setting will be . . . more conducive to access.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’re saying we only get one shot,” says Pentecost.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton exhales in frustration. “You get zero. There is nothing you have that can harm us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Nuke worked pretty well last time.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton tilts his head. “A burned hand may destroy a million epithelial cells, yet the Flesh endures.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“All right, Vincent Price. Tone it down.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “Our current understanding is that the Precursors have a . . . fundamentally alien concept of mortality. In short, even if we could launch an effective attack, we could not ‘shock and awe’ them into surrender. If we go in, we need to be prepared for nothing less than xenocide.” To say Hermann is uncomfortable with the option is an understatement, for more reasons than one. For all that he’s dedicated his life to protecting the Earth from the Anteverse, he simply could not be party to the intentional eradication of an entire alien species, no matter how hostile.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I do not believe that is our only option,” is Shao’s opinion. “With all due respect, Hermann, you’re information source on this is”—her eyes flick to Newton, then away again just as fast—“hardly unbiased.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Then I eagerly await your production of something better,” Hermann snaps. “In the interim, I can only work with the data I have.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Shao’s lips thin and her eyes harden, but before she can answer, Lambert says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“What did you mean before? About ‘this Earth’?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We’ve long know the Anteverse exists outside our universe,” Hermann says, before Newton can give an answer that’s even more confusing. “From Newton’s descriptions of it, it’s very possible it exists outside our, for want of a better world, multiverse. The Precursors seem to have access to multiple parallel versions of Earth, and if they’re not beholden by our dimension of time, as seems likely, at possibly any point.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Everyone looks at Newton, who just says: “Yes.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“The implications,” Hermann continues, “are beyond anything we’ve currently planned for. At minimum it would imply the Anteverse experienced a potentially infinite number of Pitfalls, potentially simultaneously. For whatever that means there. And if Newton is correct, and even <em>that</em> was not sufficiently deterring . . . then you’ll have to excuse me if I find myself calculating the probably of success of this current plan down to zero.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Silence, as this sinks in. Then, from Lambert:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Well. Could we, y’know. Contact these other Earths? They’re fighting the Anteverse too, right? So . . . we could help each other. Not just weapons; maybe they know things we don’t, or we know things they don’t. And maybe an invasion from one Earth isn’t enough but one Anteverse versus an infinite number of Earths? Those odds are sounding better, yeah?” Then, when everyone simply stares at him: “That . . . that could be something? Maybe?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” says Hermann, and doesn’t know how to answer. When he looks over, Newton is scowling over the whirring blur of his spinner. Contemplative, not dismissive.</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s not an unreasonable avenue of exploration,” Hermann eventually says. Lord knows he doesn’t want to give anyone false hope, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">Could they? Could they really . . . redirect the Breach somehow? Push it sideways instead of out?</p>
  <p class="p1">The next time their eyes meet, Newton raises both his eyebrows. It’s the most human expression he’s had since they arrived, and in that moment Hermann knows that yes, yes they absolutely could do this, and yes, Newton absolutely thinks it could work.</p>
  <p class="p1">“How long would that take?” Stone is saying. Because, ah. Yes. Reality, crashing back in.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “Potentially? Years. We’d have to— to entirely re-engineer the nature of the Breach.” No shortcuts, this time.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We don’t have time,” Shao says. “This is a distraction. We should be focusing on strategies we know will bring concrete returns. We <em>know</em> we can hurt the Anteverse; we’ve done it before. If we need more powerful weapons, then so be it; <em>that</em> is what we should focus on. Not . . . not blue sky fantasies lifted straight out of comic books.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m inclined to agree,” says Stone, and Hermann sighs. Of course.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You intend to send Jaeger?” Newton, immediately the centre of attention again.</p>
  <p class="p1">“What of it?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton does his head tilt, regarding Stone as he would a particular vexatious specimen for dissection. “Jaeger systems are similar to the Hive. We control the slavemeat and we will control you, too.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The Rangers’ eyes get very wide.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That— no,” says Shao. “No. That was— we’ve removed all your— your filth.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“The Pons is not designed with— with that sort of security in mind,” Hermann says, slowly. “It’s a moot point, on Earth.” He turns to Newton. “You think the Precursors could... inject some kind of override? Physically?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“In the slavemeat, we etch Orders, as you do with yours. But once receptive, physical contact is no longer required.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mate,” says Pentecost, “this conversation? Not sending me to my happy place.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s ability to explain things in human terms is, apparently, getting worse. Hermann tries his best to parse what he’s trying to tell them. “So this could be done remotely?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Perhaps.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Could we . . . shield against it?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We do not know. We would need to grow hiveswarm to see.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“That sounds right like something that should not happen, ever,” says Pentecost.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton just looks at him, still and unblinking. “Then hope you are not sent through first. To test your resilience.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You really need to work on not making everything you say sound like a threat, mate. Also, might wanna try blinking once in a while, while you’re at it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Blinking was inefficient. We fixed it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, brilliant. Totally normal and not at all creepy, yeah.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord help them all. “So there’s another potential issue,” Hermann says, if only to break up the brewing squabble.</p>
  <p class="p1">Stone’s eyes flick to Newton. “I was hearing a lot of ‘maybes.’”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Because it’s <em>stalling</em>,” Shao snaps. “Trying to make us second-guess a strategy we know will work.”</p>
  <p class="p1">(<em>A strategy you know will make you rich,</em> says the part of Newt the Drift left in Hermann’s brain. Damn him.)</p>
  <p class="p1">“Its at least worth considering,” Hermann says, “given what we know about vulnerabilities in the Drift.” Given what’s sitting right next to him. “I will . . . I will see what I can do. Even without specific knowledge there may be ways to increase system security generally. One assumes it better than nothing.” Hermann has no idea what “hiveswarm” are, but suspects his chances of being allowed to find out are somewhere a little to the left of zero.</p>
  <p class="p1">From there, the conversation steers mostly back to weapons; bigger guns, dirtier bombs, the potential for biological weapons. Newton contributes very little, even on the latter topic which, while distasteful, is at least technically in his wheelhouse. Shao promises the world, for a price, and suddenly Hermann feels <em>tired</em>. All his knowledge, all his effort, reduced to this. Like little children, sitting around a table, painting miniatures and boasting over the prowess of their imaginary armies. As if they aren’t talking about real people, real lives; human and kaiju and Precursor alike. Hermann just wants this all to <em>stop</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">How do they make it stop, if not like this? There must be a way. There <em>must</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">By the time they’re dismissed, nearly an hour later, Hermann is exhausted and frustrated and just . . . done. Extremely done. He also has a list of projects to prioritize, no resources for the ones he wants, and the entire might of Shao Industries behind the ones he doesn’t. He makes no effort to walk quickly back to the lab, Newton stalking, silent and dark, half a pace behind him.</p>
  <p class="p1">(Hermann wants to . . . He wants a hug, damn him. It sound so childish, but there it is. But Newton’s been . . . deep for a long time, and Hermann is wary of knocking him out of it too quickly. That way headaches and unsettling bleeding lie. Perhaps worse things. He’s rather not have to find out.)</p>
  <p class="p1">To Hermann’s surprise, Pentecost and Lambert follow him, lost in their own brooding, anxious thoughts. It occurs to Hermann he is, technically, their senior and perhaps bears some kind of responsibility for consoling them. And so says: “That could have gone worse.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You think?” Pentecost looks incredulous.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I think we learned important intelligence and opened multiple promising avenues of research.” Which, all true.</p>
  <p class="p1">“All of which they’re gonna ignore in favor of throwing us against the wall for their little suicide run.” Pentecost huffs. “You know I am all for kicking the shit out of the Precursors in their own home, but there are enough martyrs in my family as it is. I don’t plan on adding my name to that wall.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Or dying to make a billionaire even richer,” Lambert adds, uncharacteristically darkly.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “Don’t talk like that around Newton, lest you want an impassioned speech about the parallels between the Anteverse’s penchant for harvesting worlds and rapacious, endlessly expanding human capitalism.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s not subtle, is it?” Pentecost says. “When you put it like that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Our home away from home,” comes the opinion from behind.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>When they get back to the lab, Newton immediately goes to retrieve his Walkman, pops in the headphones, turns the music up loud enough for them all to hear, and goes to flake out on top of a cleared workbench, eyes closed.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I thought the cadets were bad,” Lambert jokes, and gets an elbow in the ribs from his partner for his efforts.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann retreats to his own side, somehow unsurprised when Pentecost follows him.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Look. Doc . . .” Pentecost starts, and does not seem to know how to finish. But by the way his eyes flick to Newton, Hermann thinks he can fill in the gaps.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Your concern is unwarranted, Ranger Pentecost,” Hermann says. “He will not harm me and I am not frightened of being alone with him.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You have to admit that was fucked up, even for him. And, look, no offense mate, but if he wanted to go you—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dear Lord the man lives in my flat.” They’re speaking quietly, assumedly so Newton does not overhear. “And while I do not relish it when he does . . . that to himself, he does it to help and it’s nothing I have not seen before.”</p>
  <p class="p1">This earns him one of those piercing, doubtful looks Hermann is growing tremendously sick of. Then: “If you’re sure.”</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>Of course I’m not bloody sure!</em> Hermann does not yell. <em>It keeps me up at night, not being sure! But I love him. I want to trust him. Can you blame me? Wouldn’t you, if it were your best friend? Your lover? Your Drift partner? What else would you have me bloody </em>do<em>?</em></p>
  <p class="p1">Out loud, he says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“If you come back in two hours and find me throttled to death on the floor, you have my permission to carve ‘I told him so’ on my headstone.” He can even have Shao co-sign.</p>
  <p class="p1">Pentecost inhales sharply through his teeth. “Kinda hoping it won’t come to that, yeah,” he says.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Roughly forty minutes after lying down, Newton’s tape snaps off and he leaps up like a mad thing, making for the glassboards, picking up markers as he goes. Over the next fifteen minutes, mad genius unfurls in a corporate rainbow of black and red and green and blue. Notes to self and to-do lists, mind-bending Precursor scrawl, formulae and equations, even several rough wiring and anatomical diagrams. Hermann waits until Newton’s slowed to the point he’s doing more chewing of pencaps than writing, then hobbles painfully over.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yo, Herms,” is as far as Newton gets. Then Hermann hugs him.</p>
  <p class="p1">They can do this. This is fine. It doesn’t trigger Newton’s . . . thing. And he enjoys it, turning his body more fully into Hermann, arms coming up to rub soothingly at his shoulders. (Never quite a full embrace, though. Never something Hermann couldn’t easily slip free from.)</p>
  <p class="p1">“Great day, huh?” Newton says, and Hermann groans.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ve recently become very viscerally aware of the meaning of the phrase, ‘too old for this shite.’” Which earns him a laugh, and a chaste kiss on his jaw. Then: “I worry for the Rangers. We lose so many, every time, even when our strategies are sound. And every time I think, ‘If only I’d done more; made stronger armor, better weapons, understood more about what we were facing. Maybe they’d still be alive.’ This? I don’t think I can deal with this, too. If Stone orders them into an attack we have every reason to believe will fail... if I can’t stop it...” Lord, what does that make him?</p>
  <p class="p1">A pause, then: “It’s moot if you can’t get them through the Throat.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann tightens his grip around strong, lean shoulders and wishes it were that easy. “They won’t accept excuses indefinitely. And we do need to be prepared for the chance that Shao Industries gets there before us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton snorts. “Dude, Shao can throw all the money in the world at the Throat and it still won’t change the fundamental laws of physics.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You think it’s that hopeless?”</p>
  <p class="p1">He gets a noncommittal sound in response. Then: “Right. Well. So-oo-oo... Distract them with giving them something they <em>do</em> want.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Such as?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton pushes him back, just far enough for Hermann to see the absolutely wicked gleam in his eye. “Did you see how Stone’s lil’ face lit up when he asked for a bioweapon? And, um. Hello? Certified mad genius right here? Bioweapons are easy. <em>And</em> the payload can be kaiju meat, so no problems with the Throat, <em>and</em> it won’t involve sending any Rangers. Easy.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“That . . . that is extremely illegal,” Hermann says, and gets a scoff in return.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Uh. Yeah, duh. That’s why we’re gonna do it and present it to Stone on our own. Meanwhile, you work on the Throat and if your models <em>happen</em> to take you next door instead of across the street then, hey. Isn’t science full of happy little accidents?”</p>
  <p class="p1">So perfect, so neat. <em>This is how it gets what it wants.</em> But . . . Lord, Hermann is tired. And he wants to trust, he truly does.</p>
  <p class="p1">It must show on his face, at least some of it, because he gets a wry smile from Newton, who leans in to give him one more sweet, chaste kiss. “Hey, Herms? Be kind to yourself, yeah? Whatever happened, whatever happens? You did your best. And none of it is your fault.”</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Three days after the meeting, Stone storms into the lab, folder in hand, and points a thick, weathered finger at Newton. “You. You did this?” He brandished the folder, shaking it for emphasis. “This is your idea?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s bioweapon proposal. He hadn’t mentioned it to Hermann beyond that first time, but Hermann is not at all surprised he continued to work on it surreptitiously and, apparently, presented it Stone himself.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is marking up papers, reclining with shoes up on a workstation, and barely deigns to look up at Stone when he enters. “Mm? Oh. Yeah, sure.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You can do this? It will work?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton shrugs. “Probably?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Good enough. Hermann, give— give him whatever he needs. I don’t care. Just get it done.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann stands, pained but determined. “Sir,” he says, because he feels he should. “I must protest. The development and use of biological agents in warfare is extremely illegal.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Jesus, Hermann,” says Stone. “This is the survival of the human race we’re talking about here. Who the fuck gives a shit?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Just get it done. Give— give Geiszler what he needs. Or I’ll find someone else who will.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes, sir.” He tries not to spit the words. That would be juvenile.</p>
  <p class="p1">Once he’s gone, Newton makes a thoughtful little sound, one of the old buttons on his Walkman clicking off with a heavy mechanical <em>thunk</em>.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>And now you better do what they <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uTnZIRnNlRI">suggesting you to do my friend</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. “It’s our planet, actually.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>... aa-aa-aa-and we finally actually start earning our rating!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann jolts awake somewhere in the pitch black wee hours with the sudden, terrifying realization he is not alone.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s something on the bed.</p>
  <p class="p1">There are no windows in the dorms and the only light cast in the room comes from the pulsing LED of his laptop. It’s enough, barely, to make out the large, rounded shape lying next to him. Now that he’s aware of it, he can feel the way the mattress dips from its weight, feel the ghosting rise and fall if its breath, the heat of it, the—</p>
  <p class="p1">“Sorry.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Barely a whisper, but relief washes through like summer rain. “Newton.” Of course. Who else?</p>
  <p class="p1">“Sorry. Didn’t meant to— We’ll go.”</p>
  <p class="p1">He starts to move, but Hermann reaches out to still him, managing to make contact with a bare, too-cold shoulder. “You can stay, darling,” he says. “Get under the covers; you’re freezing.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A pause, a breathy little sound. Then Newton is doing just that.</p>
  <p class="p1">The bed is large enough for two, but barely, and they end up facing each other, scant inches apart.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We thought . . . like. You put us in a separate room, so . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I didn’t want you to feel there were . . . expectations,” Hermann says. “Of— of that nature. And thought you may appreciate your own space. After everything.” They’re both still whispering. Ridiculous, truly—it’s not like there’s anyone else here to wake up—and yet . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh.” Newton shifts, inching almost imperceptibly closer. Cold skin fast warming, and Hermann reaches out to run a hand down a lean, bare flank.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We thought we could, y’know. Practice,” Newton says. “Being . . . close. So we stop freaking out about it.” A pause, then: “Man it sounds so fucking stupid, saying it out loud.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Not at all, darling.” Hermann continues petting him, soothing. Enjoying the warming feel of flesh under his hand, the way Newton squirms into the touch, obviously craving more.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Sexual dysfunction was not an advertised side-effect, you know?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Can’t say I’ve looked into it, but I’ll accept your findings.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The startles a laugh. “Wow. And us without our recorder, so we can’t even capture this historic event.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann exhales, not quite a laugh, and things fall into a sort of warm, comfortable silence.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is getting <em>tremendously </em>squirmy beneath Hermann’s hand. Poor thing.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann takes pity on him. “Do you touch yourself?”</p>
  <p class="p1">A hitched breath and: “Y-yeah.” A pause. “It . . . it still all <em>works</em>, y’know?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Would you like to now?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh. F-fuck. Yeah. You can too. If— if you want?” Delightfully hopeful, and almost painfully shy.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann gives the firm ridge of his hip one last squeeze, then rolls over to reach into his nightstand.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton has already started when Hermann retrieves the (ahem, slightly crusty) towel and spreads it beneath them. He does not turn on the light, merely lies facing the dark, slightly rocking shadow in the bed next to him, listening to soft, hitching breath and the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh.</p>
  <p class="p1">He palms himself through his own pajamas, in no hurry. Enjoying the creeping curl of heat, of tension, as his prick slowly fills.</p>
  <p class="p1">He doesn’t dare speak, and doesn’t dare touch, as much as he burns to do both. Reminds himself this is for Newton; a space for him to feel soft and safe and <em>human</em>, if only for a little while. Newton, who’s strangely quiet; though they’d never been together physically, Hermann knows Newt had been a babbler. Not so now, though Hermann thinks he may be muffling his cries against a fist.</p>
  <p class="p1">When the sounds from Newton’s side speed up, Hermann reaches his hand inside his pajamas, pulling out his now-hard prick and stroking with more intent. He licks his hand for a little more slick, tastes his own sex-musk, inhales the smell of Newton’s. Wonders what it would be like to finally, <em>finally</em>, have the man in his mouth. Something he’s fantasized about for decades; having his face pressed against thick curls and brightly snarling monsters. He knows Newton is uncut, heavy rather than long, imagines the weight of it on his tongue, in his throat.</p>
  <p class="p1">He gasps, only just managing to catch the moan, eyes falling closed. Hears Newton’s own choked-off sound in response. One, then another, and the whole bed shakes as Newton’s body goes rigid and jerks and the room is filled with the musk of his cum.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Fuck,” Newton is saying. “Oh fuck oh fuck.” But it’s breathless, awe-struck, and so Hermann allows himself a pleased sigh, hand still working. Close, not quite there.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Wanna touch you,” Newton says, breathless. “Please. Please can—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“<em>Yes</em>.” Oh Lord yes. “Yes, darling, yes.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Then Newton’s hands are on him, hot and a little sticky, running down his chest. Newton presses clumsy kisses to his face—his cheek, his nose—before finally finding his lips, and Hermann tilts his head back, returns the kiss open-mouthed and hungry, and it’s perfect, absolutely perfect. He’s waited decades for this, his whole adult life. Warm and dark and close and <em>here</em>, the other half of Hermann’s soul, returned broken and strange but <em>returned</em>, pressing against him, hands ghosting across the jagged scars of Hermann’s own cracks, running past them, joining Hermann’s own around his throbbing prick.</p>
  <p class="p1">And now the babbling comes forth. A string of “oh fuck” and “let me” and “please” and Hermann pulls his hands away, thrusts forward in a strangely familiar-unfamiliar grip, and comes with a shuddering groan.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton works him through it, pumping just a fraction beyond too much, stilling only when Hermann gives one final shudder, overwhelmed in pleasure-pain. “Oh,” Newton is saying. “Fuck that’s hot. You look so hot when you cum. Fuck.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, lets the nonsense wash over him, feels the warm release of post-orgasmic hormones. Newton cleans them up, tosses the damp towel into the dark and settles back down, close but not touching, covers pulled up over them both against the Shatterdome’s ever-present, creeping chill.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mmm,” says Hermann, because it’s about all he can manage.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’re smiling.” Newton sounds almost reverential.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mhmm.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“That was . . . that was okay, then? We can try that again?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Whenever you want, darling.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton gives an almost childish giggle. “Um, like. Always? We can just stay here forever and do that always.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Sounds wonderful,” Hermann murmurs, because the hour is unmentionable and his body feels very warm and very heavy and Newton is very real and very solid and sleep is very, very close.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton says something else, but Hermann misses it, drifting off into contented unconsciousness.</p>
  <p class="p1">He’s gone before he thinks to ask how Newton was able to see him in the dark.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann, of course, suffers regrets some hours later when Newton rises at sod-off o’clock to, Hermann assumes, do his revolting fit-person morning routine.</p>
  <p class="p1">He grumbles his displeasure, burrowing further into his pillow, and Newton chuckles. “Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” He leans over to press a soft kiss to Hermann’s shoulder.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mmpf,” Hermann says.</p>
  <p class="p1">He listens to the soft sounds of Newton padding, barefoot, around the room. He pauses in front of the room’s cheap, industrial dresser, and Hermann hears the wooden click on a photo frame being picked up, studied, then put back. It’s hinged in the middle; one side is Hermann’s family, back when he and his siblings were children and his mother had been alive. The other side is of him and Newt, taken in LOCCENT, just after the end. Young and stupid and happy. Pathetic, perhaps, that he’d kept it, all that time. And in so intimate a place. But if Newton thinks so, he does not voice the sentiment.</p>
  <p class="p1">Instead, Hermann hears the rattle of coins in the little bowl he empties his pockets into and Newton exclaiming: “Hey! My Yamarashi guitar pick! I was wondering where that went.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mmpf,” says Hermann.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Huh.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The a pause.</p>
  <p class="p1">Then Newton turns, and exits the room.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Things progress, as they do.</p>
  <p class="p1">With Newton back working in the lab, things even start feeling uncannily . . . Hermann doesn’t want to say “normal” because it hasn’t been, not for a decade, but . . . Normal. Things feel uncannily normal. The lab even begins to look like it used to, the formerly commingled workspaces migrating to one side or the other, blending in the middle. Newton keeps his primary project away from Hermann, for the most part, but they work together on the Breach and on ideas to secure the Pons and it is, while it lasts, bliss.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton still occasionally goes with Doctor Ogawa to continue his neurological work, but does not venture much further beyond. He will not accompany Hermann to meals, or to the other, more communal areas of the Shatterdome. Hermann doesn’t press it; he’s already largely in the habit of eating lunch in his office and tea in his room, and sees no reason for this to change.</p>
  <p class="p1">Except, perhaps, on those evenings his living room is taken over by studying cadets. Hermann even, occasionally, gets roped in to assist. He’s already culpable, he supposes, in stealing the childhoods from these bright-eyed young men and women. The absolute least he can do in return is tutor them in effortlessly passing rudimentary calculus.</p>
  <p class="p1">They meet regularly with Stone. He’s gleeful at Newton’s options for a variety of truly horrific bioweapons—described in visceral detail in Newton’s flat, alien Precursor-voice—and constantly frustrated by Hermann’s lack of progress on the Throat. These meetings become the only times Hermann sees Liwen Shao, primarily because they’re the only times she’ll ever force herself to be in the same room as Newton (and, it should be said, vice versa). Those few times Hermann does meet her elsewhere in the Shatterdome are . . . tense. To say the least.</p>
  <p class="p1">(Shao Industries does not and, to their credit, will not invest in bioweapons manufacture, meaning Stone’s current preference for Newton’s work over conventional Jaeger systems represents a potential loss of billions for the company. Hermann suspects, privately, that was rather Newton’s intent. This new version of his old friend can certainly be a viciously political animal, in a way Newt never was.)</p>
  <p class="p1">At home, Hermann doesn’t think he’s ever been so happy. Getting regularly laid—or at least frequent wanking off in the enthusiastic presence of another person—makes up no small portion of said emotion.</p>
  <p class="p1">They still have not had sex and Newton still has a tendency to . . . destabilize if their petting grows too amorous. Nor will he fully return Hermann’s embrace. Privately, Hermann grows to believe the reason is fear. Newton’s body once reached for Hermann with an intent to kill, and his mind—always both his greatest asset and his most pernicious enemy—will not let him forget it. But he’s physically affectionate in other ways (<em>gotta get that sweet, sweet oxytocin hit, man</em>), and Hermann is content.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>The argument starts like this:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Damnit, Hermann. It’s been nearly two damn months and you’ve still got nothing! However you’ve been used to operating in the past, I am currently paying your salary and I expect results! I do not pay you to sit down in that basement and lick your own damn ice cream!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Beside him, Hermann hears the whir of Newton’s ever-obnoxious fidget spinner stop.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann takes a breath. The another. Then: “Are you paying me to break the laws of physics, then?”</p>
  <p class="p1">The spinning starts up again. Newton is bouncing it between the fingers of one hand; index, middle, ring, pinkie. Then back again, over and over. Weeks ago, when Hermann had asked about it, Newton had explained it <em>gave </em>him<em> something to do, while we handle the big boy job</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“If that’s what it takes, yes,” Stone is saying. “I don’t care what you have to do. Pull it out of your pet’s head by force if you have to.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann doesn’t bother to hide his disgust over this . . . suggestion. Besides: “I cannot break the laws of physics and I cannot magic into Newton’s head knowledge that is not there. We have extensively discussed the mechanics of the Throat and he has no more idea how to bypass them than I.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“So he says,” Shao mutters.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Bullshit.” Stone, apparently, agrees. “Those things send their monsters, they can send our Jaeger, too. If it won’t tell you how, <em>make</em> it tell you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We know how to Send slavemeat,” Newton says. “Your Jaeger cannot pass Sending, but we could make it so.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Stone actually looks like he might pop something, so incensed he is over the thought he’s only hearing this information now. Hermann, who has gotten rather good at deciphering some of Newton’s more esoteric utterings while in this state, intervenes:</p>
  <p class="p1">“He means re-engineering the Jaeger entirely. Out of cloned organic parts. Kaiju-based; chitin chassis, bone armatures. That sort of thing.” One of the many things they’ve argued about. Idly. At length.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ve seen this show,” Pentecost tells Lambert, “and it does not end well.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Shao is somewhat more impassioned, leaping from her chair: “No! Absolutely not! For god’s sake this is what it <em>wants</em>! It’s using you, all of you!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Not this again.” Hermann really shouldn’t, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">Shao rounds on him. “Hermann, it literally just suggested growing a kaiju!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Dear Lord he really shouldn’t, but Hermann just can’t stop himself. “Newton has long argued that bioengineered, techno-organic Jaeger components would be significantly stronger and lighter than our current inorganic alloys, can be manufactured with far less environmental impact, powered more safely, <em>and</em> would be self-repairing,” he says. “I’ve seen his proposals and, quite frankly, and as much as it pains me to admit; he’s very likely right. No one is talking about growing an actual kaiju but part of the reason we consistently struggle against the Anteverse is they can grow and deploy their forces much faster than we can build Jaeger and replace pilots. We need <em>options</em>, surely you can see the need for that? What point is there trying to win this war if we do the dirty work of dismantling the planet while we’re at it?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Shao looks like he’s slapped her. “Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare talk to me about ‘dirty work’ when week after week you come here and you sit next to that thing while it whispers honeyed poison and turns you against your own planet! I—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s our planet, actually.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The fidget spinner has stopped. Everyone turns to look at Newton, perhaps more startled at the sound of the human-seeming voice than anything else. Hermann makes a distressed sound at the bloodied tear-track on Newton’s cheek, and immediately starts patting down his pockets to find a handkerchief.</p>
  <p class="p1">“W-what?” Shao manages.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton shrugs, pain from the motion making him wince. “Our Earth,” he says. “They all are, technically; we seed and grow them for Harvest. You just evolved here. Like, who owns the hive box? The beekeeper or the bees? Thanks, man.” This last as he takes Hermann’s offered handkerchief, dabs it gently under his eye. “And lucky for you we’ve had our little come to Wikus moment and kinda think your pathetic civilization is worth preserving but it’s gonna be basically impossible to persuade the rest of the Flesh that. Hence we’re here. Or, like. We were. This whole thing where we all sit around for hundreds of man hours and listen to you vomit your impostor syndrome all over Hermann while that psychotic smooth-brained asshole”—meaning Stone—“pretends like if he shouts loud enough he can alter the universe’s fundamental physical properties? Yeah, fuck that, man. If I wanted this bullshit I’d go back to work in your soul-sucking crapitalist hellhole. Fuck you, and fuck him, and fuck this shit. You think this is fun for me? You think I like chronic migraines and bleeding out my fucking eye every other week to try and help you ungrateful fucks? Fuck you. I’ll work on your fucking bioweapons so you don’t fucking shoot me and I’ll do whatever the fuck else Herms wants because I owe him, but I am so. Fucking. Done with this weekly masturbatory reacharound <em>bullshit</em>. I’m going back to the lab, haters don’t follow. Mic drop, Newt out.” He’s already standing by the time he gets to the end, voice thready and shrill and loud, and he does, indeed, mime dropping a microphone. Then turns on the heel of his bespoke shoes, and stalks out.</p>
  <p class="p1">A beat, then: “Well. He’ll need an escort.” And Hermann stands to follow him. Both Shao and Stone try and shout something at him as he does, then get distracted blaming each other for speaking at once, and Hermann flees before they can sort it out.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newt is already a good distance down the corridor, but Hermann’s gait is unmistakable and he stops to wait when he hears it. By the time Hermann catches up, Newt’s busy unthreading his headphone buds from the inside of his shirt, Walkman in his left hand. Honestly, Hermann had no idea he’d brought it. Nowadays, Newt tends to dress in his tailored vests and shirts, fronts untucked over black jeans. The Walkman is bulky by necessity but it’s a later model, expensive in its day, and Hermann supposes he wouldn’t have noticed it, if Newt had it clipped to his belt, hidden by his shirttails.</p>
  <p class="p1">His eye is still bleeding, and he’s tilted awkwardly to try and stop it dripping on his clothes while he winds up his headphone cord. Hermann takes the bloodied hankie from where it’s been half-stuffed into a pocket, and takes over blood dabbing duties.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Times like this I can really see the strong argument for having four hands, y’know?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Do you need to go to Medical?” The eye worries him. It worries him more that Newt implied it’s done this regularly, not just the two times Hermann’s seen it.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newt snorts. “What? So they can take photos of my brain and look serious and say, ‘Hmm, yes, Doctor Geiszler it does appear you are, as they say, completely fucking fucked’?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann just sighs, and relinquishes the handkerchief when Newt takes it back, cables folded and tucked into his pocket, Walkman clipped back onto his belt. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you home, then.” He pushes gently into the small of Newt’s back to get them moving.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ve got shit to finish, man. I’ve gotta—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Geiszler, as the head of K-Science I am informing you you are not currently fit to work, and am ordering you to go home and get <em>rest</em>. Your dreadful quote-unquote ‘shit’ will still be there tomorrow.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Wow. Can’t decide if you pulling rank is really fucking infuriating or really fucking sexy.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s reply—that perhaps Newt should think about it while he’s <em>at home resting—</em>is interrupted by the sound of booted footfalls, hurrying to catch up.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Damn, man,” says Lambert, when he and Pentecost draw level. “That was... You <em>really</em> pissed them both off, you know that right?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Boo fucking hoo,” is Newt’s, rather bitter, reply. “What are they gonna do about it? Illegally detain me without trial even harder?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Uh, yeah mate,” says Pentecost. “That’s exactly what I’d be worrying about, yeah.” He’s eyeing Newt strangely, likely because this is the first time he’s actually spoken to, well. Newt. The first time he’s heard the man refer to himself with singular pronouns.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newt makes a disgusted sort of <em>gatch </em>sound. “You know, when you dragged me back here I was like, ‘Hey, go figure. Hitchens was right, this waterboarding shit? Really does fucking suck unwiped ass. On the other hand? Don’t have to spend all fucking day listening to Liwen fucking Shao.’ Gotta hold onto those little things to get you through the hard times, y’know? And yet, somehow, here I fucking am. Again.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Pentecost and Lambert exchange a look. Newton doesn’t much mention what he endured prior to Hermann’s return—even Hermann’s only been given hints to it—and not for the first time it occurs that the Rangers did not know the specifics of what the army of fast-spawned contractors were doing, exactly, down in that dark and ill-travelled detention block.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yeah, well. That feeling is definitely mutual,” says Pentecost, after a slightly too-long pause.</p>
  <p class="p1">“What did you expect?” Newt shrugs, far too casually. “When all either of us can remind the other of is how fucking easy it was for a race of genocidal aliens to infiltrate and subvert her company for the purpose of world destruction, so long as it made her filthy fucking rich while she waited?”</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>Gonna make them prang, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPVOUFkjvPQ">get rowdy</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. “Dude, what is yoga even for if not flashing your junk at strangers in too-tight pants?”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>A week passes. Newton returns to himself and, after significant fussing, solemnly swears he will inform Hermann <em>immediately</em> of any future blood loss. “I won’t do this to you if it’s hurting you,” Hermann says, and his heart breaks at the flippant, “Don’t worry about us, dude; we’ve had worse,” he gets in reply.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton does not come to the next weekly update, and his absence is noted. Mostly when Shao spends a good two hours trying to convince everyone “that thing” should be returned to its “dark cell” and left to rot.</p>
  <p class="p1">“It was bright, actually,” Hermann finally snaps in response. “They left the lights on, all the time. Sleep deprivation. And so he could not keep track of how long he’d been there.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Standard operating procedure.” Stone is as expressive as his name. “For high-risk detainees.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Pentecost’s fist balls tightly against the tabletop.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann, of course, has not managed to magically unlock the Throat in the past seven days. “I’m now almost certain the properties that make it impassable are integral to the Breach’s stability,” he says. “Either we need to engineer a completely different methodology for opening one in the first place, or we need to shelve this nonsense entirely and come up with something realistic.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Shao makes a disgusted sound while Stone says: “You’ll work on the projects you’re told to work on. And if you can’t get us answers, I’ll bring in someone who can.”</p>
  <p class="p1">By the time Hermann makes it home, he’s so furious he accidentally-on-purpose slams the door hard enough to rattle the paintings. Newton just raises one eyebrow from where he’s sitting on the couch, doing something with his Walkman and his tapes. “Good meeting, then?” he asks, pulling out his headphones.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann leans against the door, too tense and furious to move further. “Lord help me,” he says. “But I’m starting to see why you wanted to blow it all up.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton gives a dark little snort, shifting over to make room and patting the cushion next to him.</p>
  <p class="p1">Moving from the door is . . . unappealing, but Hermann manages it, slowly and agonizingly, dripping himself down with a groan.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’re in pain,” Newton says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m always in pain.” He manages to get his legs up on the coffee table, head thrown back and eyes falling closed. It’s about as comfortable as he can make himself, right now.</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s just stress,” he says. “It will pass.” It always does. And leaves everything a little worse in its wake, but. Well.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hmm,” says Newton. Hermann hears him put aside his Walkman, then feels the heat as he leans closer, hands hovering above Hermann’s bad leg. “Can we touch?”</p>
  <p class="p1">What a question.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Be careful.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And, Lord. What an answer.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Duh. Tell us if it hurts worse.”</p>
  <p class="p1">It does and it doesn’t. Newton’s hands are big and strong and sure and warm, and know how the human body is put together. They trace out mangled bone and too-tight ligaments through the wool of Hermann’s trousers, pressing into knots in ways that have his breath hitching and tears forming in the corners of his eyes.</p>
  <p class="p1">He does not ask for it to stop. It’s been too long, since he’s taken the time for this; physical therapy or a simple massage. Too far to go to seek one out, too much he could be doing in the interim. The war clock may have been silent for a decade but Hermann lived with it long enough that he forgot how to simply <em>slow down</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“So,” Newton eventually says, “we can help with some of this. But you’ll have to get up and strip down to your skivvies.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Does this ‘help’ involve any sort of dubiously ethical, bleeding-edge, unapproved medical procedure?”</p>
  <p class="p1">A chuckle. “Nope. Just gonna fold you into embarrassing positions for a bit.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann cracks one eye to throw a skeptical look. “Yoga? <em>Really</em>?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is stretched out next to him, very close, head propped on his fist, elbow on the back of the sofa. His other hand is doing very interesting things in the vicinity of Hermann’s inner thigh. “Mm. Think of it more like your own free, on-demand, in-house physiotherapist.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You are not a licensed physiotherapist.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“No, we only have like ten zillion biology degrees, including a doctorate in human anatomy, and have spent an absolutely obnoxious amount of time over the last decade sitting on sweaty foam with our ass in the air. Also a personal, vested interested in making you feel good with our own two hands. But, like. Your choice, dude.” He grins, self-satisfied and awful and brilliant.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You are terrible.” Hermann kisses him, stands with a groan, and begins to pull off his clothes.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Great! Let me get some stuff.”</p>
  <p class="p1">When Newton returns, he’s changed into one of his drop-sleeve tanks and tiny, skintight pairs of shorts. He’s also carrying his yoga mat and several towels and pillows, and starts pushing aside the furniture to make room for the lot. Hermann feels rather silly and somehow paradoxically underdressed, propped against the recliner in his pants and socks and vest, painfully reminded of every other awful time he’s tried something like this, surrounded by the fit and the athletic and the beautiful, with their too-kind, too-enthusiastic patience and earnest reassurance that things would get better if he just “went at his own pace” and “kept at it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Bollocks they would. When have they ever?</p>
  <p class="p1">It must show on his face because, when Newton approaches, he laughs and says: “Regretting things already, huh?” He holds out his arms, inviting. Ready to help Hermann onto the floor.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, and goes. “I suppose there are worse things,” he admits. “Than allowing my lover to grope me for an hour or so.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Wow. We feel so, like. Desired right now. So sexy.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Those shorts <em>do</em> leave rather little to the imagination. Are you even permitted to wear them in public?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude, what is yoga even <em>for</em> if not flashing your junk at strangers in too-tight pants? If you’re not staring into someone else’s Breach you’re not doing it right.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“And people submit to this?” Hermann tries to get settled on the mat, shifting stiffly at the pain in his lower back. “Voluntarily?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“No accounting for taste, right? Lower back hurting?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton picks up Hermann’s legs and . . . moves them, somehow. Then puts them back down. “Better now?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Er, yes, actually.” The easy manhandling would annoy him, from anyone else. But Hermann supposes he’s been at least low-grade annoyed at Newton for his entire adult life. The baseline has definitely shifted.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s face appears over Hermann’s, grinning and smug. “See,” he says. “Told you we knew what we were doing.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And, well. He <em>does</em>. It isn’t quite like anything Hermann’s ever had before. Newton spends a good fifteen minutes trying to ascertain the extent of Hermann’s damage, the range of motion he still has. Hermann’s injury is not something they’ve ever discussed, though he knows Newton knows the vague outline from the Drift. A car accident and a botched surgery and year upon year of poor aftercare and compounded pain and pills and and twenty years and this, spread out on yet another mat on yet another floor, trying yet another desperate hope to quiet the ache in his bones and the fire in his nerves, his eternal and unwanted companions.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann <em>loathes</em> physiotherapists. Patronizing and earnest, fit and whole and healthy and knowing nothing of what it’s like to live in crippling agony, year after year. Who push too hard and blame Hermann’s pain on Hermann, as if he has time for their ridiculous exercises and stretches. As if that isn’t the whole bloody reason he’s in a mess to begin with.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton knows all this, of course, if only in outline, not detail. He moves Hermann gently, into the promised “embarrassing positions”, all of which involve him lying on the floor, legs and often arms akimbo, propped onto the towels and pillows or Newton or all three. The positions are strange; some of them even have him spluttering “I can’t do that!” when Newton demonstrates.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Nah,” he’s told, at the first of these. “It’s a bitch to get in and out of if you’re not used to it, but that’s what I’m for. Once you’re there, you’ll be dozing off in no time.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And, damn him; he’s right. Newton has Hermann holding positions for extended periods, but always supported in ways that don’t exert. And as Hermann lies there, Newton’s hands run gentle pressure over stretched ligaments and, inch by inch, Hermann feels himself relax.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m going to fall asleep,” he mutters at one point, facedown in a stack of pillows, bad leg stretched behind him, slightly less bad leg curled up beneath in a way he could never have imaged, an hour ago, he’d be able to achieve.</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s cool if you do,” Newton says. “We won’t let you, like. Lock in place or whatever. It’s really just about getting you to relax.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“This is not very much like what I was expecting.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A chuckle, firm fingers kneading into Hermann’s arse in a way that makes him moan. “‘Cause we’re probably not doing what you had before, dude,” comes the response. “Like, if you’re going to PT they’re trying to fix things. So they gotta push you. If you want us to fix things, that’s when we start talking about all those dubious medical procedures. This isn’t that. This is just . . . trying to make you feel good for a few hours.”</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>If you want us to fix things. </em>Like Newton could, if Hermann asked; reach into his body and reshape his flesh, his bones. Rewrite his very DNA, perhaps. To not live in constant pain, with props and aids and bars and allowances. To move freely, to <em>run</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">All of that, and at what price?</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann takes a shuddering breath, hopes Newton thinks it’s from the physical manipulations, not the mental ones. Newton, who “fixed” his eyes and “fixed” his body and called it efficient to do so. A man to whom flesh is nothing more than another errant machine, fit to be tweaked and modded at will, no more sacred than a car or computer or Jaeger, and certainly nothing like a divine gift. If Newton has gods, he is as far from their image as it’s possible to be, and perhaps that’s the whole point.</p>
  <p class="p1">Still. <em>If you want,</em> he’d said. And he touches Hermann’s twisted body with reverence and care and lust, slows his pace when they walk, makes no complaint or comment about the chair and the bar in the bathroom. As if he loves Hermann as he is and would always love him still, whatever he chose to be.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann does doze, or something close to it. When they finish up he’s on his back again, limbs heavy and loose, Newton’s hands gently stroking every part of him from crown to toe; <em>now relax your eyelids, now relax your lips, now relax your shoulders.</em></p>
  <p class="p1">It’s shudderingly intimate, and even though Newton keeps it entirely non-sexual, Hermann’s body . . . reacts. (<em>Relax you hips, relax your thighs.</em>)</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton ignores the . . . situation, even though there’s no way he hasn’t noticed. At least until he’s sitting at Hermann’s feet (<em>relax your toes</em>), hands gently cupped around bony ankles.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Feel good?” he asks, soft and gentle and earnest.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mm,” is about what Hermann can manage, and gets a chuckle for his efforts.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You know,” says Newton after a moment, and <em>there’s</em> the edge in his voice. “This is Doctor G’s <em>full service</em> house of massage therapy.” His hands start sliding up, over Hermann’s calves. Funny, Hermann thinks. Newton has been touching him for . . . it must be at least an hour, now. Kindly, but clinically. Professionally. If <em>this</em> touch is professional, however, it’s definitely a very different kind of profession.</p>
  <p class="p1">“If this how you entice all your clients, Doctor Geiszler?” Hermann is suddenly feeling very, very awake, and at least one specific part of him is definitely not relaxed.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Currently? One hundred percent of them, yeah. It’s a very popular . . . <em>package</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann snorts. Not particularly dignified but, then again, not much about this situation is. “Well then,” he says. “Who am I to refuse the best service of this fine establishment.”</p>
  <p class="p1">This earns him a kiss, just below his mangled knee. Then one right on it, that he feels more by inference than through his thick scars and damaged nerves.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, shifts his hips and allows his thighs to fall open. Newton pushes them apart, gently, planting gentle kisses on the skin as he works his way higher. There’s a hitch in his breath and a tremble, almost imperceptible, in his hands. They haven’t done . . . this. It could still go wrong. But if Newton wants to try, Hermann wants to let him.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, darling yes,” he says, as his legs are pushed apart. Further than they could’ve gone an hour ago, wide enough for the warm, solid presence of Newton to settle between them. Newton is nosing into the inside of Hermann’s thigh, inhaling heavily at the scent of him, muttering nonsense like <em>you smell so good, right here, just gonna stay here forever</em>. When he starts to mouth at Hermann’s balls, at his too-hard prick, Hermann gasps an affirmation—always words like <em>yes</em> and <em>more</em>, encouraging and clear—and tries to force himself not to thrust. He’d been growing a little cold, lying still on the floor but the chill has fled him now, rousted by the fire in Hermann’s skin, by the quickening drumbeat of his heart.</p>
  <p class="p1">His hand raises, almost without meaning to, hovers just above Newton’s head. He doesn’t want to push, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">He threads his fingers, gently, through lush, too-long strands. Newton makes a pleased little sound at the contact so Hermann presses deeper. Not enough to trap or force. Just . . . there. Comforting, encouraging. Or so he hopes.</p>
  <p class="p1">The front of his briefs are thoroughly damp, with spit and with pre, as Newton mouths them. It’s maddeningly exquisite and not nearly enough, all at once, and soon Hermann’s begging in breathy little gasps, thighs opening, hips rocking upwards. <em>Yes darling</em> and <em>oh I need</em> and <em>more please more</em> and finally, finally he feels Newton’s fingers hook around his waistband.</p>
  <p class="p1">He tugs down, just far enough to hook Hermann’s prick and balls over the top, Hermann’s fingers fisting into his hair. “Yes,” Hermann is saying. “It’s good, please. Oh, please darling, yes.” And, after a moment of hesitation, Newton licks him.</p>
  <p class="p1">It’s lightning behind Hermann’s eyes and an inferno beneath his skin. He gasps, shameless, arching and shuddering, as he feels Newton blow air across his aching prick.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Tease,” he accuses, and gets a breathy little laugh for his efforts.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Just . . . kinda nervous,” Newton admits.</p>
  <p class="p1">When Hermann looks up, he nearly comes right there, right from the sight of Newton, peering up almost shyly from behind Hermann’s thick, hard prick. “Lord.” Her brings his hand down, gently, to cup Newton’s cheek. “You’re perfect. Whatever you do . . . it will be perfect, because it’s you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh,” he gets in response. “Wow.” Newton’s eyes flicking down to Hermann’s prick s the only warning he gets. Then Newton is opening his mouth, and swallowing him whole.</p>
  <p class="p1">Or, well. Mostly whole; he takes too much at first, and gags, then laughs nervously at his own mistake. Hermann just sweeps the hair back from his brow, lets him take his time to reconsider his approach.</p>
  <p class="p1">He ends up with the head of Hermann’s prick between his lips, tongue teasing the underside, hand working at the shaft. It’s fairly obvious he’s out of practice giving head, but deeply enthusiastic over the chance to brush up his skills. All Hermann has to do is lie back and let him at it; hardly a trial.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann grabs one of the pillows and props himself up with it, to better see Newton work; eyes closed in concentration, cheeks hollowing as he tries to learn when to suck and when to stroke, running his tongue around the glans, dipping into the slit. Hermann gives him encouragement, vocally, though perhaps not so usefully given his encouragement is doled out for, well. Absolutely everything.</p>
  <p class="p1">Maybe not useful, but tremendously earnest. Hermann is having a great time, absolutely smashing, top marks all-round. Finally, his prick in Newton’s mouth; the cumulation of a lifetime of fantasies. This is, he will admit, not how he expected any of this to go—definitely the yoga mat is a surprise—but so much better than even the wildest of dreams, on account of being <em>real</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, Lord,” Hermann says, as the realization truly hits him. “Oh.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s eyes flick up to his, curious, and it’s dreadful and it’s cliche but—</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh! I’m going to—” He pushes Newton back, just in time, as galaxies unfold inside him and he cums, spurting across his belly in thick, white bursts. Dimly, he’s aware of the slick sounds of flesh-on-flesh and Newton’s own gasping, choked off grunts, and suddenly the hairsbreadth between them is too much, and Hermann reaches out, scrabbling blindly before Newton’s hand find his, and threads their fingers tight together.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Thank you,” he says, after a moment, not meeting Hermann’s eyes. “We just— thank you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Darling, I say this with the utmost sincerity: any time.”</p>
  <p class="p1">This earns him a laugh. Small at first, but the joy is contagious and Hermann joins in. Because, well. How ridiculous; lying cum-splattered on the floor of their living room, panting and sweaty, pricks hanging out of their pants.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann grabs a nearby towel and does what he can to clean himself up; Newton finds another and does the same.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We’ve thoroughly spoiled your mat,” Hermann says, then blanches from the guilty expression that flashes across Newton’s face. “Newton! You let me lie on this!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Like, it’s been cleaned!” Newton protests.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’ve been deceived.” Hermann readjusts himself inside his pants, trying to muster as much dignity as a man can, lying in his underwear on the floor. “A soiled yoga mat. Such scandalous actions.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Just for that, we’re going to leave <em>this</em> stain here forever. Like, archaeologists will dig up this totally non-biodegradable PVC yoga mat in a thousand years and be able to clone us from the residue.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Firstly: Horrifying. Secondly: How many doctorates do you allegedly have and what fields are they supposedly in again?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“What, would you’ve preferred us to jizz all over the carpet tiles instead?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann drops himself back onto the pillow, staring up at the depressing, shotcrete ceiling. “I don’t want to move,” he says, in lieu of answering.</p>
  <p class="p1">He feels more than sees Newton stand, watches the shadows as the man stretches out his limbs. “It’s gonna get cold and hard down there, dude, and you’re gonna undo all our good work.” A hand appears in Hermann’s field of view, and he sighs and takes it, uses the help to haul himself back to his feet. He wouldn’t say the action is easier that usual, exactly, but he does feel . . . lighter, than his normal self. He shifts his limbs, experimentally. He’s still in pain—Hermann doesn’t really remember what it’s like not to be—but it feels . . . deeper and more distant than usual. Buried in his bones, not coiled, sharp and flinty, beneath his skin. He takes a deep breath, exhaling loudly for the pleasure of it. He feels—</p>
  <p class="p1">“Feel good?” Newton, holding the pile of Hermann’s clothes.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Er, yes, actually.” Hermann takes his trousers, shakes them out and props himself up on Newton while he pulls them on. “Thank you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It was good for us, too.” By the hesitation with which he says it, he doesn’t really mean the orgasm. Hermann kisses him, just once, and they go to get cleaned up.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>That night, Hermann is stood on an endless, writhing plain, sat beneath a red and bleeding sky. The air reeks of agony and death and endless, eternal industry and Hermann feels as if he’s never known another world and Hermann feels he’ll die if kept here another heartbeat.</p>
  <p class="p1">He is not alone.</p>
  <p class="p1">The Precursor towers over him, even seated; long, bifurcated legs curled beneath it on the flesh-wrought ground. Six star-bright eyes watch Hermann from a flared, chitinous hood, gleaming a madhouse purple-bright, and Hermann knows they don’t so much see him as see <em>through</em> him; into the bloodied machine of him, bone and meat and sinew. Beneath that gaze, he is not a man; he is nothing but his working parts, a too-long broken aggregation of resources, begging to be disassembled, to be reused, improved. Fixed.</p>
  <p class="p1">The Precursor is seated and its arms—too-long, too-thin, too many joints on its grotesque, frond-like fingers—reach up from its abdomen and fold across its thorax, bold swirls of green and yellow and blue visible beneath the purple-grey. Hermann knows those colors, those bright and self-inflicted scars, as intimately as he knows his own, and he lunges towards them, feet slipping on the squirming terrain, shout choked back by the thick, wet air.</p>
  <p class="p1">The Precursor does not stop his approach. Just watches, head tilted. Hermann’s own head spins as he grows closer, overwhelmed by the sheer, chemical <em>stink</em> of the creature in front of him; a cacophony of intricately shifting scents Hermann has not been built to comprehend. It smells like madness and feels like a Tesla coil, static crackling over his skin, hair standing on end, nervous system screaming confusion. It <em>hurts</em> to be in the creature’s presence, Hermann’s body and soul rebelling against the proximity to something so truly, unfathomably alien. And still he presses forward, stumbling and sensation-drunk, pitching forward only to be caught and steadied by the segmented podomere of a single, reaching limb.</p>
  <p class="p1">The Precursor unfolds its other arms, too.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newt is there, as Hermann knew he would be; hanging limp, limbs fused into the sharp angles of the Precursor’s thorax. He is hurt, brilliant tattoos darkened by bruising and marred by wounds, ugly and infected and seeping. Hermann lets loose a sob surging forward to fall against him, blunt fingernails madly scrabbling at the seam between skin and chitin, desperate to dig him out, to pull him free, to—</p>
  <p class="p1">Alien fingers wrap around his wrists, gently. Pull his arms away. Hermann sobs, but does not struggle. Too late, months too late. Years. The seam is not a seam at all, just a gradient, and Hermann can see where tattoos fan and spread across an alien chest, fading into natural markings of purple-black, where veins and arteries pump dark ichor into Newt’s heart. Too fused to live apart.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sobs, allows strange limbs to place his hands on Newt’s neck, on his face. Hermann holds him, buries his face in a firm trapezius. Now that he’s looking, he can see Newt’s wounds are old; bruises fading yellow-green, gashes clotting and scarring. He’s sleeping, or something like it, eyes closed and expression peaceful. Accepting. Content, and he sighs gently at the feel of Hermann’s touch, head tilting to press closer, lips curling into a gentle, beatific smile.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s nothing here for Hermann to save. No last minute rescue, no daring extraction. The only thing they have to do now is rest. Rest, and heal, and learn how to live.</p>
  <p class="p1">And Hermann . . . all Hermann can do is be. To hold Newt close, and close his eyes, and let strange alien limbs fold like a shield over them both.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann jerks very suddenly awake at a very awful hour, heart racing in the pitch black of the room. He stares blindly at nothing for some time, waiting for the edges of the dream to fuzz and fade, listening to the awkward snoring of Newton, warm and solid, sleeping beside him in the bed.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>And I'm as <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Eo84jDIMKI">sane as I ever was</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. “I told you, Hermann. If you couldn’t get us answers, I’d bring in someone who could.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><strong>Content warning</strong> that this chapter non-graphically deals with torture, and the aftermath thereof, starting from, <em>Shao’s contractor pass gets them into Q-block.</em></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>“Hey. Um. Doctor G? Have you seen Doctor G?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann blinks at the voice, looks up from the model he’s been staring at for the last, Lord. Three hours, apparently. He’s so close, he thinks. The Throat is pernicious but in the mechanics of its collapse he thinks he can see . . . a window. A hairsbreadth of an opportunity. If he can figure out a way to divert it—</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doctor Gottlieb?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Yes. Right. Later.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann pulls off his glasses, pinches at his brow and tries to clear away the downpour of equations and hypotheses. To focus on Ranger Namani, standing awkwardly in the middle of the lab, a cluster of cadets lurking behind her, boggling at the weird science chaos around them.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Sorry,” he says. “What?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We’re supposed to have study group?” More a confirmation than a question, then: “But Doctor G isn’t answering.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Right, yes of course. Namani is even holding a coffee.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We though he might be with you?” she adds, prompting.</p>
  <p class="p1">“No,” says Hermann, brain finally kicking into gear. “No, I left him back in the flat. To wait for you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh. Um . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, saves and shuts down his simulations. “He’s likely just sending himself deaf with his awful music,” he says. “I can let you in.” He’s overdue for a walk. And perhaps a kiss. And food. Lord, he missed lunch. He probably would’ve missed dinner, if not for the interruption. But he’s so close to a breakthrough. He can <em>feel</em> it.</p>
  <p class="p1">He makes awkward small-talk with the cadets on the way back to the dorms, mostly because he’s their elder and their senior and he feels he should. He still finds teenagers as baffling as intimidating as he did when he was, in fact, a teenager himself, but it’s . . . easier, now he’s several decades removed from their concerns.</p>
  <p class="p1">The fact that the cadets all seem to rather idolize him—apparently even more so, now he is, in Newton’s words, the quote-unquote “fucking Precursor Whisperer”—certainly does not hurt.</p>
  <p class="p1">He swipes the gaggle of teens into his quarters with a, “Newton? Be decent, you have guests.” He gets no response, though hadn’t really expected one, but—</p>
  <p class="p1">Something is not right. There’s nothing obviously amiss, but . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s door is open but he is not inside his room. Nor is he inside the bedroom, when Hermann opens it to peer inside (he closes the door quickly once he’s done; the cadets certainly do not need to see the unmade bed or Hermann’s strewn clothing or, well, the highly incriminating towel thrown haphazardly onto the floor). Knocking on the bathroom door produces similarly no response, and there’s no one inside when Hermann checks.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hm,” he says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“... Doctor Gottlieb?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is still not permitted to move about the base unescorted, a stricture that, near as Hermann can tell, he’s been unusually conscientious in obeying. He can’t have simply vanished.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann returns to Newton’s room, actually walks in this time and looks around. It is exactly as obnoxiously orderly as it always is, bar two things; one, the bedcovers are askew, and two, Newton’s Walkman is lying in the middle of the floor.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann picks it up, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut. The tape inside is still spinning, though Hermann can’t hear anything playing through the headphones. He turns it off, leaving it on Newton’s desk.</p>
  <p class="p1">The bed isn’t warm when Hermann touches it. Newton no longer sleeps in it but does idle here during the day, working and listening to music. Always on top of the neatly made covers, leaving nothing more than the slightest of disturbance. Today, the duvet is half-fallen from the mattress, pillows askew. Almost as if someone had been forcibly dragged from it. While listening to their Walkman, perhaps.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann did not become the head of K-Science by dint of being a fool.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is . . . is everything okay?” Ranger Namani, inching into the room.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann opens his mouth. Then closes it again. She’s a <em>child</em>, despite everything. She came here for help with her chemistry homework. Which is a thing she has. On account of being a child.</p>
  <p class="p1">Still. She’s clever, and tenacious. And won’t be dismissed easily, so . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">“We appear to have misplaced Newton,” Hermann says, carefully.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh,” says Ranger Namani. “Um. I thought he, like. Wasn’t allowed out on his own?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“That’s right,” says Hermann.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m afraid study group may be cancelled today.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I still have Doctor Geiszler’s coffee.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann looks at it, and looks at Ranger Namani and says, very sincerely: “Well. You can give it to him when we find him.”</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann goes to the Marshal, because it seems the most direct route. He does so trailing a cloud of cadets, eager at the thought of adventure, especially one involving the Shatterdome’s resident villain. Ranger Namani directs them onto tasks; checking Medical, checking DFAC, checking the cell block, the Jaeger bays, every known coffee machine, LOCCENT, the meeting rooms. Everywhere they can think he might have gone. Even back to the labs, in case they’ve missed each other in their search. The cadets peel off, one after another, until it’s just Hermann and Namani, walking into the Marshal’s empty office.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hm,” says Hermann.</p>
  <p class="p1">He starts questioning the administrative staff. Methodically. Because Hermann is a scientist, and methodical is what is does, what he is. He can work this puzzle through, just like any other. He does not need to jump to any . . . conclusions.</p>
  <p class="p1">No one has seen Stone for several hours. He was last seen in a meeting with persons unknown. No one knows where he has gone.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s hand grips his cane, tight enough to hurt.</p>
  <p class="p1">In the elevator, they run into Rangers Pentecost and Lambert.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Heard you lost something,” says the former.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes,” says Hermann, voice even and calm. “It would appear so.” Like ice above a frozen lake.</p>
  <p class="p1">Pentecost snorts. “Rumor was Stone took a tour group down to Q-block earlier today. More of his jackbooted spooks.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is it now?” asks Hermann, changing direction. Q-block is plant rooms, mostly, plus the data centre. Rarely traversed, except in those events where something is going wrong. How ironic.</p>
  <p class="p1">The Rangers join their little retinue, which Hermann is earnestly glad for. If they encounter any . . . difficulties, it will be nice to know he has some large, physically adroit adults to assist him.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s a bloodied handprint on the mantrap leading into Q-block, and drips of smeared blood on the floor. Hermann exhales, very carefully, and swipes his card through the reader.</p>
  <p class="p1">The reader’s LED flashes red, and the door does not open.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hm,” says Hermann.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That normal?” asks Pentecost.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Not in my experience, no.” Hermann is the head of K-Science and one of the Shatterdome’s most senior officers. As far as he’d been aware, there was <em>no</em> room or door barred to him.</p>
  <p class="p1">The Rangers try their cards as well, just for the sake of it, to no avail. Hermann is considering his options—the swipe card system is, frankly, not that secure and Hermann will definitely be able to circumvent it with some basic tools from the lab—when he hears:</p>
  <p class="p1">“I was coming to tell you. I swear. I swear I didn’t know what he had planned.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann turns, his retinue parts.</p>
  <p class="p1">Liwen Shao stands at the far end of the corridor, Cadet Malikova in her wake. Shao’s normally crisp pantsuit is in disarray, and she’s breathing like she’s been running.</p>
  <p class="p1">And Hermann says, as stark and unflinching as his equations:</p>
  <p class="p1">“What did you not know?”</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Shao’s contractor pass gets them into Q-block. Hermann doesn’t think about it. He can’t think about it. Not when he has to stalk, strong and sure, as Shao leads them through the narrow, winding halls. Clear conduits run cable overhead, like arteries of Kaiju Blue, and the roar of the datacenter and the HVAC is almost deafening. It’s also bone-chillingly cold, though that’s not what has Hermann’s hair standing on end, has the shudder running down his spine.</p>
  <p class="p1">From up ahead he hears: “—this once again. How do we bypass the Throat? You know what happens if you refuse to tell us. You know what happens if you pretend that you don’t know. We know it can be done and we know you know how. You will tell us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Silence, or at least no sounds loud enough to be heard above the roar of the machines, the roar of Hermann’s blood. Then:</p>
  <p class="p1">“All right. Back in you go. Initiate on your own count.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A heartbeat later, Newton screams.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Lambert makes it into the room first, Pentecost hot on his heels. Hermann hears shouts, startled and outraged, even something that might be a scuffle. Pentecost is screaming, “Shut it down! Shut it down right now!” and Hermann can hear Stone, voice as vicious as a scalpel, telling him to stand down.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I didn’t know, I swear. I thought they destroyed it,” is all Shao can say, and Hermann shoots her a look of pure, undisguised loathing. He’ll . . . he’ll think about her later. For now, he turns to Vik and Amara and orders them to stay put—whatever’s in that room, it’s not for children to see—and rounds the corner.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s a room, to the left. A comms room; still in use, judging by the cascades of cables, hanging from the walls. Inside Pentecost is bearing down on Marshal Stone, fist clenched and half-raised. Three men Hermann doesn’t know stand, in various states of shock, around a terrifyingly familiar array of screens. Lambert currently has one by the collar, hauled onto his tip-toes. One of the other men is bodily guarding an operating console.</p>
  <p class="p1">And behind all of that, in the back of the room, casting everything in a grotesque, sickly, yellow-green glow?</p>
  <p class="p1">Is Alice.</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>I thought they destroyed it,</em> indeed.</p>
  <p class="p1">An Newton, screaming and thrashing, strapped down onto a table, forced into a Drift.</p>
  <p class="p1">For a moment, Hermann’s heart stops. He meets Stone’s eyes across the room, dead and cold, and Stone says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“I told you, Hermann. If you couldn’t get us answers, I’d bring in someone who could.”</p>
  <p class="p1">There are times, Hermann thinks, when the world tilts on its axis. When the car is coming, much too fast to stop. When the Breach opens, monsters pouring forth. When a dear friend’s fingers close around a throat.</p>
  <p class="p1">As it turns out, Hermann thinks, when it comes to moments like these? He’s had <em>practice</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">He ignores Stone, walks to the man before the console. “Bring him out,” Hermann says. “Right now.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I don’t take orders from you,” the man says, or tries to say. He gets about halfway through before the brass head of Hermann’s cane connects with his knee and he drops, earning a blow to the head on the upswing. And while everyone is busy boggling over that, Hermann decouples the Drift, as gently as he knows how.</p>
  <p class="p1">He tries not to notice how many of the displays are . . . not showing positive signs.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton has stopped screaming by the time Hermann gets to him, though he’s breathing far too quickly, still arched into a grotesquely unnatural position, bleeding from his nose and from both eyes. He’s strapped down, not handcuffed, but when Hermann goes to undo the buckles Newton begins to thrash once more, throat emitting a series of tortured, animal wails.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann tries to still him; gentle hands on his cheeks, his brow. Newton tries to bite in return, eyes glassy and staring at nothing and Hermann shushes him, muttering nonsense and lies (<em>darling it’s me I’m so sorry I’m here you’re safe</em>). Too close, and for one heart-stopping moment Hermann feels Newton’s teeth close over his thumb.</p>
  <p class="p1">Then a hot tongue, pressing against his skin.</p>
  <p class="p1">The teeth don’t bite down. Newton draws back, in fact, mouth open, inhaling deeply through both it and his nose. Relying on his sense of smell, of taste, to tell him what his eyes currently cannot.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann pulls himself closer, presses Newton beneath his throat, feels the tickle of big, gulping breaths against his skin. “Yes,” he murmurs. “It’s me. It’s me, darling. I found you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And slowly, inch by inch, Newton relaxes.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann begins to unbuckle him, as fast as his shaking fingers will allow. He suspects they don’t have much time; Pentecost is in the middle of a screaming match with Marshal Stone, and Shao and Amara and Vik and several cadets have arrived as well. Everyone is talking very loudly, threatening court marshal, threatening to quit. All Hermann knows is he has to <em>get out</em>, has to get Newton out. This is . . . this is not any place they need to be.</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord. How many times did they—?</p>
  <p class="p1">No. No, he can’t think about it. If he thinks about it he won’t stop, and he doesn’t have time, not when there are still three buckles to go, heavy and awful and leather, Newton’s wrists bruised and raw beneath them. Hermann is shaking so much he doesn’t notice Lambert approach, not until Newton tenses again, starts once more emitting that hideous screeching howl.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is . . . is he—?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Please,” says Hermann. “I have to get him up. We have to—”</p>
  <p class="p1">But when Lambert touches him—just on the ankle, to try and free him—Newton’s thrashing doubles in its violence. Hermann tries to still him, tries to tell him not to hurt himself, that <em>you’ll be free ssh darling please be still you have to be still</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Doc, are . . . are you sure getting him out of there is a good idea?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann looks up, distraught at the suggestion. He’s hunched awkwardly over Newton who seems to have, for the moment, stilled. If only because his face is currently buried in Hermann’s armpit and he’s scenting it like a suffocating man gulps down air.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I don’t— I don’t mean leave him <em>here</em>,” Lambert says, quickly. “Just . . . I don’t want you to get hurt.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Except Hermann isn’t being hurt. Newton has one arm free and he’s using it to pull Hermann close to him, and—</p>
  <p class="p1">
    <em>We don’t have a spoken language.</em>
  </p>
  <p class="p1">“Smell.” Hermann gasps it. “They communicate via smell.” And then: “Amara! Come here.”</p>
  <p class="p1">The girl in question trots up immediately. Her face is drawn and wan—and sickly, in Alice’s glow—but, importantly, she’s still clutching:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton’s coffee. Bring it here.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Familiar smells. Hermann’s sweat, awful rancid butter coffee. Anything that isn’t this dusty room and cold metal and ammonia and blood.</p>
  <p class="p1">It is, of course, completely ridiculous. But it works. The smell of coffee calms Newton down; the people who bring it to him only ever want to talk, have never hurt him, and even in . . . this state, he still remembers that. Just like he remembers Hermann.</p>
  <p class="p1">Calmed, they get him free. He even tolerates Lambert manhandling him, though his attention is getting even more erratic and they’ve barely gotten him to his feet when his whole body goes slack, tortured mind finally pacified into unconsciousness.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We have got to stop meeting like this, man,” Lambert says, hauling him into a fireman’s carry.</p>
  <p class="p1">Of all things, it’s Shao who gets them out of the room. Pentecost is a force to be reckoned with but, at the end of the day, he’s still PPDC and still technically Stone’s subordinate. Shao, meanwhile, is an outsider. And an influential one at that.</p>
  <p class="p1">“—will report this to the Security Council!” she’s saying, in full-tilt CEO mode. “Shao Industries prides itself on its corporate ethics. We do not—we <em>will not—</em>partner with governments that practice torture on their citizens and do not think the PPDC is immune to that policy! I know you think you are a very important man with very powerful friends who is very free to do what he likes but I am here to tell you you are mistaken! Shao Industries will <em>destroy</em> you, and please know that when we come for you you will be all alone. Your friends will not save you! Do I make myself clear?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Liwen, this is— I think we need to—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I asked you a question! You will answer it! And you will refer to me properly while you do so!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I— Yes ma’am.” Stone sounds like he’s trying to spit thumbtacks through taffy.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Excellent. Now here is what we will be doing to clean up <em>your</em> mess—”</p>
  <p class="p1">They make their escape while they can.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>He has Lambert return Newton to their room, to a great deal of protest.</p>
  <p class="p1">“He should be in Medical, minimum,” Lambert says. “You don’t know if he’ll be . . . okay. When he wakes up.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Well he certainly won’t be if he wakes in a strange place surrounded by the smell of disinfectant and surgical tools!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“So bring him a blanket to hug, man. I just . . . you know what happened. Before. We worry about you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You mean you worry about the crippled old man being physically out of his league?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Lambert huffs. “You— you really are impossible, you know that?” He deposits Newton onto the bed because, yes, despite his protests, he has done exactly as asked.</p>
  <p class="p1">And yes, Hermann knows he is being, as Lambert says, “impossible.” But he feels he’s reason to.</p>
  <p class="p1">As they bicker, more footsteps come rushing through the still-open door. Hermann scowls and goes to intercept, and finds his living room suddenly populated by Doctor Ogawa, Nurse Keawe, and Cadet Jinhai.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I brought them,” Jinhai tells Hermann, wide-eyed and earnest. “That’s . . . that’s okay, right?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Honestly, the relief Hermann feels is physically palpable. Of course. He doesn’t need to go to Medical. He can bring Medical here.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes,” he says. “Yes, good thinking. Excellent. He’s in here.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“What happened?” asks Doctor Ogawa.</p>
  <p class="p1">So Hermann tells her, while Keawe goes about the task of stripping Newton’s sweat-soaked clothes. Cleaning him and re-dressing him in a t-shirt and soft sweats Hermann retrieves from the other room.</p>
  <p class="p1">Ogawa, meanwhile, grows increasingly pale as Hermann speaks.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That is . . .” she says. “That is truly unconscionable. To force a Drift on an unwilling subject . . . And multiple times.”</p>
  <p class="p1">They both shudder with the thought.</p>
  <p class="p1">“They wanted information,” Hermann says. “They believed he’d be able to retrieve it from the kaiju hive mind, if only they kept him looking.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Do you—” Ogawa cuts herself off. “Sorry. I shouldn’t—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I think there’s a lot we don’t understand,” Hermann says. “About the hive mind, about the Precursors. I think we’ve spent a long time making a long list of bad assumptions.” A pause, then: “Something for which I have no one to blame but myself, I’m afraid.” Too many conclusions, drawn too hastily from too little evidence. Newton has tried to tell them, these past weeks. But even he struggles to articulate what the less humans parts of his mind intuitively know, and has an intense credibility problem, besides.</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord. He looks pale, tucked neatly into Hermann’s bed. Tense and in pain, even in sleep.</p>
  <p class="p1">“None of this is your fault, Doctor,” says Ogawa, and Hermann scoffs.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ten years ago,” he says, “I could’ve stopped this. I could’ve stopped <em>all</em> of this. If I’d only—” What? Pressed harder? Seen the signs sooner? Been better, been more, been <em>enough</em>. Opened the magical email, sent with extreme hindsight from his future self, laying out step-by-step everything he now knows he should have tried?</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s a pause, long and uncomfortable, while they watch Nurse Keawe fuss; fluffing pillows, straightening bedclothes. Then:</p>
  <p class="p1">“I think you were right,” Ogawa says. “We’ve been fighting this so long . . . The challenge is not the fight. The challenge is to not forget what we are fighting <em>for</em>. To not forget who we want to be, when this is won.”</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>If it ever can be,</em> Hermann does not say.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Ogawa admits there’s little more she can do, at least not until Newton wakes, and they can more fully assess the . . . damage.</p>
  <p class="p1">She leaves Hermann with a jet injector, tucked into his kitchenette’s tiny fridge. An anticonvulsant, in case Newton enters seizure. If that happens, they will have to transfer him, try more aggressive interventions. Until either of those situations arise, all they can do is wait.</p>
  <p class="p1">Ogawa tells Hermann to get some rest but Hermann knows that will not happen. Instead he has Nurse Keawe move the recliner into the bedroom and takes up vigil over Newton’s unconscious form.</p>
  <p class="p1">He means to only sit a little while, to just . . . reassure himself (that Newton is here, that he’s alive, that his body at least is as safe as they can make it), and is startled when a soft knock at the door stirs him and he realizes three hours have passed.</p>
  <p class="p1">He’s somehow unsurprised to see Ranger Namani and several of the cadets, carrying food they’ve obviously brought from the DFAC.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You need to eat,” Namani tells him. Hermann has not eaten anything since the toast he’d consumed for breakfast, and the anxious nausea roiling in his stomach makes the idea of consuming anything more rather unpalatable. Still, the teens have brought him noodles, and he sips at the broth and eats a too-floury dumpling and a few mouthfuls of the noodles themselves. Then he packs the rest up in his unusually empty mini fridge—apparently Newton had, at some point, cleaned out the copious past remains of forgotten dinners—and resumes his vigil.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Newton sleeps the entire next day. It is not a peaceful time. Nurse Keawe returns at intervals to perform various duties, with the periods between filled with a seemingly endless parade of cadets and rangers bringing Hermann food and making him tea and “just making sure he’s okay” and, more importantly, not lying strangled and dead on his own bedroom floor.</p>
  <p class="p1">From Pentecost, he learns Shao has taken de facto command of the Shatterdome, largely to quell the mutiny brewing among the cadets, who all threatened to walk out, en masse, in protest over Stone’s actions. Hermann is not sure what this revelation makes him feel, and so chooses to feel nothing about it, instead. All he can consider right now is the terrain directly before him, the place his next unsteady footfall will land. So he will wait, and watch, and eventually Newton will wake, and Hermann will make his choice.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>Can you still show me the way? Can you still <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HM2SBJxHW9I">show me a light</a>?</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. “The meat is weak.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>He passes out sometime around midnight. He doesn’t mean to, but his bones ache and his skin itches and lying next to Newton on the bed—above the covers, close but not touching—helps. So he curls there, watching the gentle rise and fall of Newton’s chest, the fan of his too-long hair against the pillow, the dome of the too-still cornea beneath his eyelid. Still no signs of REM sleep, no signs of any movement at all, bar the breathing, and Hermann knows he should get up, should tell Doctor Ogawa. It’s been too long, Newton should’ve woken by now, were he going to, and, Lord. How does Hermann manage to bollocks this up, every time? He should’ve had Newton in Medical from the start. He should never have left him alone to begin with; should have been better, smarter, faster. Should’ve been <em>enough</em>, and isn’t that the story of his life? Never <em>enough</em>, just a sad old cripple, spending his life chasing dreams and that one, brilliant moment at the end of the world when, for one single heartbeat, he’d been able to stare into the heart of the universe and see—</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann bolts awake, mind tilted and reeling and he didn’t mean to sleep Lord how long was he out what is that sound did he sleep all night he’d just meant to watch Newton for a moment Newton who’d been so still so broken lying next to him like the dead Newton who is <em>gone from Hermann’s room</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, no.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann lurches upright. He’s still above the duvet but Newton’s side of it has been thrown over him, and when Hermann puts his hand against the sheet, it is cold.</p>
  <p class="p1">Someone is pounding furiously on his door.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh. No.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s heart is stuttering by the time he makes it to the door, hands shaking so hard he stumbles with the handle. When he opens it to see a furious (former?) Marshal Stone, his heart sinks.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You wanted to do things you way?” Stone spits. “Then you can help clean up your own fucking messes, too.”</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Newton has sealed himself in the lab. Physically, melted the huge steel door into its frame.</p>
  <p class="p1">Fortunately, cutting through steel isn’t exactly an unusual task in a Shatterdome, and by the time Hermann arrives, a crew of j-techs are most of the way through.</p>
  <p class="p1">“How— how long?” Hermann breathes.</p>
  <p class="p1">Pentecost shrugs. He and Lambert are waiting, watching the j-techs work, assumedly summoned in the event Newton requires more . . . physical methods to be subdued.</p>
  <p class="p1">“All night,” Pentecost is saying. “Security system pinged you swiping in about oh-one hundred, guards did the normal rounds to check, figuring you’d just had a midnight brainwave. That’s when they noticed the door, and checked the cameras and—” He gestures are the scene in front of them. “We’ve been trying to cut in ever since.”</p>
  <p class="p1">One a.m., Lord. Hermann only just missed him.</p>
  <p class="p1">(<em>Or he waited,</em> says the dark little voice. <em>Feigned sleep until you passed out and gave him his chance.</em> And unimaginable deception, for the man Newt used to be. And trivial, for the one he is now.)</p>
  <p class="p1">It takes them around twenty more minutes to break fully into the room. Newton disabled the cameras in the lab shortly after entering, so they’ve no idea what he’s been doing in there; opening a Breach or playing Twister or simply sitting on the floor, waiting. Shao and Stone arrive just before the wall segment falls, and vociferously deny Hermann’s request to be sent in first.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I can talk to him,” Hermann insists.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You had your chance, <em>Doctor</em>,” Stone spits, dripping the title like a curse. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”</p>
  <p class="p1">So it’s Pentecost and Lambert who charge in, through the concrete dust and stink of molten steel and the pounding boom of the wall segment falling inwards. Hermann following as close as he can behind them. And as they enter:</p>
  <p class="p1">“That’s far enough.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is sitting on the workstation he’s been using these last few weeks, legs swinging almost boyishly. A sight Hermann’s seen a thousand times, painfully familiar, bar the glassy, unhinged expression on Newton’s face and the nail gun he’s casually pointing their way.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton!” Hermann pushes forward, or tries to; Lambert catches him and holds him back, frustratingly strong.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hey Herms,” Newton giggles. “Stole your pass. Sorry about that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton, please! I know . . . What happened—” Lord, what does he even <em>say</em>?</p>
  <p class="p1">Except Newton’s expression falls dark, and dead, and his voice is flat and cold when he says: “It won’t happen again. We won’t allow it to happen again.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“No! It should never have happened it the first place!” Too much. Agony, desperation. Rage. “Please, Newton, I’m sorry, I just—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We accept no apologies from you. But we will not allow you to stop us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Stop what?” from Pentecost, furiously angry. “What have you <em>done</em>?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“The meat is weak.” Newton raises his other hand. He’s holding a jet injector. <em>The</em> jet injector, the one Doctor Ogawa had left in Hermann’s fridge. “We will fix it.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And he presses the injector against his neck, and presses the trigger.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann screams a denial, lunges forward. The sudden motion takes Lambert off guard enough that Hermann breaks free, and runs.</p>
  <p class="p1">He can run, when he has to. Every step feels like his entire body is made of ground glass, but he can. And he does.</p>
  <p class="p1">He hurtles bodily into Newton, who catches him with empty hands; both the gun and the injector discarded and forgotten. This causes a great deal of consternation among the rest of the room, but Newton does nothing but hold Hermann upright.</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s done,” he says, jumping down off the workbench. “We’ll go quietly.” He stumbles slightly on the landing, wincing as if it pains him.</p>
  <p class="p1">“What . . . what did you <em>do</em>?” Hermann breathes.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton shrugs. “The meat was weak. We fixed it. We will go quietly with you but no others.” The flat buzz is back in his voice.</p>
  <p class="p1">There’s a large tub next to the workbench, filled with the sharp orange of sanitizing fluid and a pile of broken glassware, discarded tools. And, now, the jet injector. Everything Newton has used to do whatever he has done, destroyed. So no one can replicate his work, or even try and decipher what it was.</p>
  <p class="p1">And there, sitting discarded on the bench, the remaining half of Newt’s Yamarashi guitar pick.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann makes a decision, and staggers forward, as if overcome with exhaustion and pain. It isn’t even really an act.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Herms!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton is immediately there to catch him, help him right himself. And if, when Hermann does, the guitar pick is gone? Who will ever know. And if Hermann’s hand finds its way into his pocket? Well that’s just how he stands.</p>
  <p class="p1">And no one can possibly miss something they didn’t know they ever needed to find.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>He takes Newton back to their rooms, to no small amount of protest. Hermann snaps back that the only person Newton ended up harming was himself (and, well, the lab door and surrounding wall). Shao gives him a pitying look and allows it, but from the furious way Stone grinds his teeth Hermann knows they don’t have much time.</p>
  <p class="p1">True to his word, Newton follows silently the whole way. He seems surprised when he’s not immediately returned to his old cell, but any comment he might think to make is cut off by a virulent, hacking cough.</p>
  <p class="p1">He’s sweaty and feverish by the time they make it back to the room, and Hermann makes a frustrated little <em>tsk</em> sound.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Lord,” he says. “Newton, what did you do? Are you contagious? Will you pass out?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“No. And no. We . . . we can manage.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, rummaging in his closet to retrieve a suitcase. He hands it to Newton. “Pack clothing and anything you can’t bear to leave. No work. Nothing alien, nothing classified. Personal items <em>only</em>, do you understand me?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton nods, shivering and miserable. “Yeah, okay,” and he goes to do so.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann manages to retrieve his second case before things catch up with him, and he ends up screaming into the closet, fist pounding painfully on the edge of a shelf, incoherent with rage and exhaustion and grief.</p>
  <p class="p1">This is . . . this is too much. Would be too much for <em>anyone</em>, surely? He isn’t . . . it doesn’t make him weak, that he can’t keep . . . he can’t . . . he . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">He has to.</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord, help him. He can’t rest. Not yet.</p>
  <p class="p1">And so he takes his suitcase, and places it on the bed. Then retrieves his phone, still charging on the dresser, and makes a call.</p>
  <p class="p1">He has one moment of panic—what <em>will</em> he do, if no one picks up?—before a familiar, female voice says, “Hermann! So good to hear from you. How is London treating you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann closes his eyes. Lord. London. It feels like another lifetime.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Elisabeth,” he says. Then, in German: “I’m sorry this— this isn’t a social call. You told me once I was owed a favor. I . . . I’m hoping to collect.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh, Hermann,” comes the reply. “What happened?”</p>
  <p class="p1">It takes a good twenty minutes to explain what he needs, then for Elisabeth to get an answer. It’s an affirmative. Conditionally, tentatively, but Hermann feels, for the first time in days, like he can breathe.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You know,” says Elisabeth Vogt, Consul General of the Federal Republic of Germany. “When we said the nation owed you, we were expecting to repay you in, perhaps, a medal. Maybe some kind of lucrative, ceremonial government advisory role. No one was suspecting <em>this</em> is what you’d ask for.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” Hermann says, and gets a laugh in response. More dark than humorous but, well.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I will see you soon, Hermann. Stay safe, mm?”</p>
  <p class="p1">And she hangs up. And Hermann sighs, and starts to pack.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>“Are you ready? We need to go.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton blinks, a whole body shudder running through him where he’s sitting on his bed, packed suitcase at his feet, guitar case clutched across his chest.</p>
  <p class="p1">He’s obviously not well, alternately wracked with coughing and with shivers, and his eyes are bleary when they turn Hermann’s way.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Can . . . can we take it?” he asks, voice thready and small. It’s only by the slight tightening of his hands Hermann realizes he means the guitar.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes, yes of course.” Hermann crosses to him in two strides, handing over the stack of papers he’d printed in the living room, right after Elisabeth had sent them. “Sign these.”</p>
  <p class="p1">He’s oddly nervous as he says it—this is, after all, not entirely how he’d ever imagined <em>this</em> would go—but Newton doesn’t even bother to read what’s in front of him. Just signs dutifully where Hermann points (his signature is different than Newt’s was, sharper and more flamboyant; a rockstar’s autograph rather than Newt’s childish, first-library-card scrawl), and Hermann tells himself he’s not disappointed, that he’s doing the right thing.</p>
  <p class="p1">He stashes the papers in his satchel when they’re done, takes it and his suitcase and Newton, and ushers them all out the door.</p>
  <p class="p1">Ranger Namani is waiting anxiously for them in the hall when they emerge. “It’s here,” she says, eyes darting to Newton and back. “Ms Shao is still yelling at the Marshal. So . . . coast clear.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I—” Hermann isn’t sure what to say. “I’m sorry,” is what eventually comes out. “You shouldn’t be mixed up in this.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Namani shrugs. “Too late,” she declares, cheerfully. Then: “You’d better hurry.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Stone won’t stay distracted for long, and when he finds out what Hermann’s done...</p>
  <p class="p1">Well. Hopefully by then, it will no longer make a difference.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes. Yes, right. It . . . is has been a sincere pleasure, Ranger.” He gives her a small bow. “Newton, come on.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Don’t be strangers, Doctors G!” follows them down the hall as they go.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>They make it into the parking lot without incident. Newton starts to get agitated when he realizes where they’re headed, keeps opening his mouth as if to ask what’s happening, then forcing himself to stop. Hermann’s heart aches for him and, yes, perhaps he could’ve explained his plan a little more clearly. But, well. They don’t have time. Particularly not if Newton was going to argue or protest. He told Hermann he’d go quietly and, by Jove, Hermann is going to hold him to that promise. He can be angry about it all later, when they’re both out of this . . . this <em>nightmare</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">There is a large, black car waiting for them in the visitor’s drop-off, CC stickers by the plates and a driver who immediately helps them with their bags, then ushers them politely into the back.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann has a flash of panic as they drive away; that the gates will slam shut, that the Marshal will make chase with his hoard of contractors, that a Breach will open and a Jaeger will deploy and every single Precursor will suddenly appear around them. None of that happens. Nothing happens, in fact, bar Newton’s violent coughing and shuddering and, Hermann thinks, increasingly tenuous grasp on consciousness.</p>
  <p class="p1">Nothing happens, the car makes it past the gates, and Hermann turns, watching as the Shatterdome recedes in the rear window, trying to feel anything but relief.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Elisabeth is waiting for them on the tarmac, and she shakes Hermann’s hand when she sees him, eyes not quite settling on Newton where he sways, half-delirious, a pace back.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Is he . . .?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “He’s still suffering some of the . . . effects, of his treatment.” It’s close enough to a truth. “But he’s not dangerous.” Honestly, in his current state, even Hermann could likely overpower him.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Hm,” says Elisabeth; skeptical, but prepared to let it slide. “This is not how I would have pictured it when we were young,” she says. “Little Hermann Gottlieb, causing international incidents, calling his old babysitter to seek amnesty for dangerous alien terrorists.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“He’s German by birth, and still a citizen,” Hermann points out. “We’re not asking for special treatment. Just due process.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You did ask for it.” Elisabeth raises one neatly sculpted brow. “But even if you did not, you’d receive it. Both of you. Because of who you both are, and what you’ve each done. That’s how these things work, I’m afraid.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Elisabeth . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">“None of that. Now go on, you have a flight to catch.”</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>... two today because they're both quite short. Also <a href="https://orphaned.monster/dat/298/">END PART TWO</a> dun dun duuuuuun.</p><p>
  <em>'Cause I'm gonna be free and I'm gonna be fine (but <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zZr5Tid3Qw4">maybe not tonight</a>).</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. “There is a bath on this aeroplane.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>The plane has a bed, because of course it does. Newton is unconscious almost the second Hermann pushes him into it, Hermann not far behind.</p>
  <p class="p1">He wakes up alone, again, though being in a sealed tin can at forty thousand feet does, ironically, allay his concerns somewhat; it’s not like there’s anywhere for Newton to actually go, not much trouble he can actually make, unless he’s somehow developed the ability to teleport (which . . . please no; Hermann’s poor heart needs a rest, for at least a little while).</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann has never actually been on a private jet before—military, yes, civilian, no—and hadn’t really been in a position to appreciate it on his way in. He pays more attention now, taking in the marble fixtures and eight foot ceilings, the fact he could almost believe this a luxury hotel room, if not for the curved walls and tiny windows and roaring thrum of the engines. He has a sudden, quite visceral pang of sympathy for Newt’s loathing of the ultra-capitalist class, then scolds himself for the hypocrisy. He can think of rationing and the war and ruin of the Pacific later, when they’ve landed. When they’re safe, or at least under the promise of it.</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord. There’s no going back from this.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs, heaving himself to his feet. He feels absolutely filthy, still in his clothes from yesterday, and consoles himself with the thought that at least he’s not alone in his disarray.</p>
  <p class="p1">Or at least does, until he emerges from the bedroom, into an enormous lounge area with a ceiling like rippling, liquid gold. Newton is here, stretched out on an absolutely decadent white leather lounge chair with an espresso and a plate of fruit. He’s also wearing a ridiculously fluffy white robe Hermann knows he does not own, and his hair looks, for all the world, like he’s just taken a shower.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Wh— did you learn to teleport?” is what Hermann manages to blurt.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Huh?” Newton looks somewhat shell-shocked, and still obviously ill. But he’s cognizant, at least.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You— your hair is wet!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton blinks at him once, then twice. Then has the absolute gall to burst out laughing. “Oh, dude. You are priceless, you know that?” he eventually says. “You kidnap us, hijack Shao’s jet—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I did no such things! She <em>graciously offered</em> its use!”</p>
  <p class="p1">“—and you’re mad we took a shower?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton I do not care one whit <em>that</em> you took a shower! I just do not understand <em>how</em>!”</p>
  <p class="p1">The look Newton gives him makes him want to punch something (unwise; his hands are still bruised from the wardrobe).</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude. This is a half-billion-dollar private jet. It has a shower. Fuck, dude. It has a <em>bath</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It . . . it does not have a <em>bath</em>. It is an aeroplane!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Then, one raised eyebrow and roughly sixty seconds later:</p>
  <p class="p1">“It has a bath.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Dude, we told you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“There is a bath on this aeroplane.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yup. There it is.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“This bath is bigger than my <em>entire bathroom</em>.” Or, rather. His former bathroom. He doubts he’ll be seeing it again any time soon. Or anything else he left behind, for that matter. Lord, Newton’s piano. He hopes one of the Rangers manages to secure it.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Probably not,” Newton is saying. “But close, yeah.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A pause as Hermann considers this. “I feel physically ill,” he eventually says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Welcome to the zero-point-zero-zero-zero-one percent, dude.” Then: “You’re going to use the bath, aren’t you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">It isn’t even a question. “I am going to use the bath.” Who <em>wouldn’t</em>?</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton claps him on the shoulder. “We’ll go ask the staff for the Krug. They’ll probably have strawberries, too.”</p>
  <p class="p1">(“ . . . the <em>staff</em>?” Hermann absolutely does not screech in his wake.)</p>
  <p class="p1">Ten minutes later, they’re <em>both</em> sitting in the bath. The bath on the aeroplane. Drinking ridiculously expensive champagne and eating chilled strawberries. Dipped in Belgium chocolate.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I feel utterly disgusted with myself,” Hermann says, after downing half a glass of Krug. Twenty years of war and rations and now . . . this.</p>
  <p class="p1">“But you’re not gonna stop, right?” Newton’s smirk is far-too knowing.</p>
  <p class="p1">Damn him. “I feel this is getting dangerously close to being some kind of metaphor or commentary,” Hermann eventually says. “And I am far too exhausted.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Amen,” says Newton, and offers his glass for clinking.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann allows himself to tilt, so his shoulder presses against Newton’s (because, yes, of <em>course</em> the bath is large enough for them to sit side-by-side). He’s warm and comfortably drunk and at least five hours from having to think or do or plan literally anything. Hermann’s always loathed flying but he’s starting to see the appeal, when it’s like this. Moral objections to the excess aside.</p>
  <p class="p1">“So-oo-oo-oo,” Newton says, not at all subtly. “When we woke up and figured out you probably weren’t, uh. Throwing us back in the Hole, we actually went and read all that shit you had us sign . . .”</p>
  <p class="p1">
    <em>Ah. </em>
  </p>
  <p class="p1">“Ah,” says Hermann. How to answer this? “I— Things are likely going to get more difficult before they get better.” Slowly, rationally. “Now that things are more... public. I felt it might be prudent to have . . . formal legal recourse. For both of us.” He takes a gulp of champagne, mouth suddenly bone dry. “If . . . if you find it that objectionable, of course we may file for divorce. Though I would prefer to wait until . . . until after your future is more . . . certain.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann is fairly sure Newton is staring at him, though does not have the courage to check. Then, after a while: “You— you’re fucking unbelievable, you know that?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann flinches. “I—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“If <em>we</em> find it objectionable? Herman, holy shit. Come here you unbelievable <em>asshole</em>.” And then Newton is physically turning his face, and kissing him.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh,” Hermann says, and kisses back with equal fervor.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Of course I’ll marry you,” Newt says, breathless. “Fuck <em>yes</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Oh,” says Hermann. “Erm, yes. Jolly good.”</p>
  <p class="p1">This makes Newton laugh, because of course it does. And it’s awful and it’s perfect; which is all of their lives, really. Curling together in the warmth and comfort of the <em>bath on Liwen Shao’s private jet</em>, pleasantly drunk, kissing and touching and feeding each other chocolate-dipped strawberries and, quite suddenly, Newton groans with something like dejection.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Fuck, man,” he says. “This is, like. Our honeymoon? Kinda? And there is <em>nothing</em> we would like more—and we seriously do mean nothing—than to defile this bath, and then every single fucking cabin of this bougie fucking flying Gini coefficient. But holy fuck man do we feel like crap. Like, fucking ‘every single fibre of our being is on fire’ crap. There is <em>no way</em> we are getting it up. Like, bad timing much? Fucking <em>fuck</em>!”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann pulls him close, soothing. “It’s enough,” he says, with complete sincerity. “Being with you, like this. It’s enough. Wherever we may be. Don’t worry about about the rest.”</p>
  <p class="p1">And Newton heaves a shuddering sigh, arms wrapping around Hermann’s back in the way he’s never dared, before right now. And Newton says: “Fuck, dude. How are you so perfect? How do we even deserve this?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann has no answer, of course; does not even necessarily agree with the premise. And so just strokes his own hands down brightly-painted flesh, and hums soft nothings, and is content.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>They end up back in the bed, clean and naked and warm. Truth be told, Hermann <em>would</em> desperately love a shag. But Newton is still feeling the effects of his . . . whatever he did to himself, and it’s fine, truly. Hermann has waited his entire adult life, he can wait a little longer. Especially when even what he has is so blissfully beyond what he’d ever dared hope.</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord. He’s getting <em>married</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">Getting married to the man he’s loved, in one way or another, since the was a gawky, letter-writing youth. And yes, they’ve had their traumas—inflicted by each other and by the world—but suddenly those make things seem all the sweeter. The fact that they’re here, now, imperfect and broken in each other’s arms is more sacred and profound than any fairytale wedding or perfect romance could ever be. Newton’s courtship was bizarre and Hermann’s proposal was awful and, Lord, that’s just <em>them</em>. It is who they are, and who they are is together, and they made it, and whatever challenges are ahead—and there are many, Hermann knows—they will face them together.</p>
  <p class="p1">Oh, it’s just so sweet.</p>
  <p class="p1">And maybe Hermann does not trust “sweet”, and maybe that’s why he says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newton. About— about what happened. With . . . Alice.” The name makes him wince but he doesn’t know what else to call it. Everything else feels too . . . clinical.</p>
  <p class="p1">And because they are so close, wrapped inside each other’s arms, he feels Newton sigh, and think, and say:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Everything that could’ve broken was already shattered. Everything we could’ve learned, we already know. And— and we don’t <em>fight</em> with ourself any more, man. Like, after everything. It’s just . . . we agree, y’know?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s fingers curl tighter around Newton’s skin, unsure as to whether he’s supposed to find this assertion a comfort or not. “I want to believe you,” he finally admits. “I want to . . . Lord, I <em>want</em> to. But—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“But the price is too fucking high if you’re wrong,” Newton finishes, resigned. “We get it, dude.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m sorry.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton seems to think about this. Then, after a moment: “All right. So, like. As our soon-to-be lawfully wedded spouse, we solemnly swear we will inform you immediately of any genocidal, megalomaniacal, globally treasonous, and-or potentially illegal actions, thoughts, or schemes that may occur to us. Does that work?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I think I may have to insist on it,” Hermann says. “In the interests of marital harmony.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Which earns him a bleak chuckle, and a pause as Newton rolls over, onto his back, starring unblinking at the ceiling. “It was different,” he says. “Going back. It always made things so much . . . clearer. Before, y’know? Hurt like a motherfucker, and we knew it was fucking us up. But it felt good, too.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Addiction often does, Hermann thinks, but does not say.</p>
  <p class="p1">“But this time? This time . . . it was just pain, man. And it didn’t <em>mean</em> anything. Wasn’t some big revelation or, like, shifting of the world back into alignment or getting messages from God or whatever the shit. It just . . . it fucking sucked. And that was such a <em>relief</em>.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann, propped up on one elbow, runs a hand down Newton’s chest. He’s still feverish, glossed with sweat, muscles shivering slightly beneath rolling eyes and snarling maws. “How much of it do you remember?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“All of it,” Newton says, without hesitation. “But . . . it’s hard to . . . process. Like this.” Another pause, then: “We tasted chalk.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ah,” says Hermann. “Yes. That would’ve been me.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s head rolls towards him, wincing in guilt. “We think we, uh— Did we bite you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I was careless,” Hermann says. “But, no. When you . . . tasted me, you stopped.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton’s eyes fall closed. “You sang to us,” he says. “Chalk dust and cheap soap and sweaty old wool.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Charming.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Another chuckle, half a smile. “It was. It was the most beautiful thing.” Then, a murmur, like something he doesn’t quite mean to say aloud: “We still knew you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann settles next to him, hand still resting over his heart but not daring to put too much weight or pressure on his aching body.</p>
  <p class="p1">They lie there for a little while, Hermann’s eyes drifting closed to the sound of the engines and the gentle shuddering of turbulence (and how strange to experience such a thing, lying down naked in a bed).</p>
  <p class="p1">Eventually, the fact neither of them have truly eaten for something like forty-eight hours catches up, and Newton pulls a tablet from a drawer and orders an absolutely absurd quantity of food, most of it for himself. “Gonna need the energy,” he explains, sighing like this is some kind of trial. “Didn’t really, y’know. Have time to work out all the side-effects.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann thinks of the half a guitar pick, still hidden in the pocket of his discarded trousers. “I will confess, when you said you’d ‘fixed’ your eyes, I’d assumed you meant you’d had Lasik.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton squints at him, incredulous. “Dude. We don’t blink. And can see in the dark.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton does blink, of course, but it is now occurring to Hermann he only ever does so as part of a conscious expression. And the less . . . human he’s being, the less he does even that.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes I am starting to see how I may have underestimated your willingness to subject yourself to dangerously untested invasive medical procedures. Will you grow a tail, perhaps? Some fetching horns?” Hermann is joking but, also, Lord he hopes he’s joking. Particularly given the all-too cheerful shrug he gets in return.</p>
  <p class="p1">The foods arrival is announced by a discreet knock on the cabin door, all sight of the crew who’d prepared and delivered it gone by the time Newton fetches the trays. Hermann wonders just how many staff there are on the plane, and at the speed at which they were able to get ready for departure. Do they live on the plane, constantly awaiting its deployment? No, surely not.</p>
  <p class="p1">And yet, when he voices this he just gets another incredulous look from Newton, already halfway through devouring a salmon fillet, and a: “Dude. You know there are, like, whole armies of people whose job it is to be on twenty-four-seven high alert to prevent even the whiff of the ghost of a chance a billionaire might get mildly inconvenienced.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“It’s a whole other world, I suppose.” Just like it’s a whole other world to get actual food on an aeroplane. Plated professionally on an actual plate, served with actual metal cutlery, and not just some microwaved, tinfoil-covered slop.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann’s had glimpses into this world, of course; his own family is hardly impoverished, and a passing acquaintance with the global elite comes hand-in-hand with being one of the curiosities that saved the world (not to mention studying at Cambridge). But he’s in no way as familiar with the trappings as Newton seems to be, particularly not after twenty years of government work.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I think I’m rather ruined forever for air travel,” he laments, eyeing his Peking duck and sliced matsutake. (Again . . . <em>how</em>? How do the logistics work? What happens to the food they don’t eat? Hermann’s been on war rationing for most of his adult life, for Heaven’s sake. How does anyone still manage to live like this? How does anyone live with themselves when they do?)</p>
  <p class="p1">“Pretty sure we’re never going to be able to travel again,” Newton says. “So . . . hey. May as well go out in style.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Going out in style also involves finishing off the fourteen-thousand yuan bottle of champagne (“Shao’s table wine,” according to Newton), lazing around naked in bed dozing and watching films and, when the gentle little chime informs them they’re around two hours from Munich, having another shower. This then leads to Newton pulling Hermann off in the ridiculously oversized, rainfall-producing shower tube, if only to assuage his apparent burning need to perform at lest some form of token defilement of the aircraft. Hermann cannot complain, not with Newton pressed warm and solid against his back, dusting kisses against his arced-back neck.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>There’s a man waiting for them on the tarmac. He’s wearing a black suit and white gloves, and takes them to a large black vehicle, and generally does a reasonable job of pretending he wasn’t sent straight from the BND, Y-plates on the car aside.</p>
  <p class="p1">“You may rest in your designated accommodations tonight,” he tells them, as he packs their things into the car’s trunk. “Please do not leave the premises. A representative will arrive to speak with you tomorrow.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Yes,” says Hermann. “We understand. Thank you.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Man,” says Newton, in English. “We are <em>so</em> out of practice listening to anyone who isn’t you sprechen sie Deutsch.” Hermann actually sees their driver-cum-minder wince at the pronunciation.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I’m sure you’ll manage,” Hermann tells him, in German. He thinks Newton is being sincere, but also hasn’t forgotten the little game with the Shatterdome interrogator.</p>
  <p class="p1">The drive from Munich takes a little over an hour; and is tremendously unexciting. They go through no formal immigration processes and do no paperwork, though Hermann supposes that’s what tomorrow is for. Newton sprawls out on the car’s back seat and falls asleep almost immediately and Hermann, despite the fact he’s spent most of the last twenty four hours doing the same, soon follows him.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>He wakes up to the gentle drumming of rain and a painfully familiar driveway.</p>
  <p class="p1">Physically so; the sight of it, of the stands of pines and the spill of ferns, the neat gravel, the wind chime Karla had hung when they were children, now rusted-through but still holding on . . . it squeezes Hermann’s lungs hard enough to force the breath from him. He has not been to this place since the War began and yet, as they round a corner and the house comes fully into view, the only thing Hermann can think is, <em>I’m home</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">The place is, largely, as he remembers it; modern in its day, and sprawling. Two stories, set just far enough outside of Garmisch-Partenkirchen and in just a large enough block of land to feel remote without any of the inconvenience of being too far from the city. When the rain clears, the view of the alps is truly spectacular but, for now, Hermann contents himself with the lush sight of the garden, sprawling and half-wild, rampantly green and shining.</p>
  <p class="p1">Mother had always loved her garden, but it had fallen to ruins after her death. Seeing it restored—and recently worked on, judging by the tools left by the front door—brightens his heart in a way that has him blinking back tears.</p>
  <p class="p1">He shakes Newton awake as the car rolls to a stop, earning a grumpy, endearing—and not at all human—hiss for his efforts, at least until Newton’s eyes blink open and his mind comes back from wherever it had been, and he inhales deeply and stretches for the heartbeat it takes him to recognize where he is.</p>
  <p class="p1">“ . . . Whoa.” He sounds legitimately floored, looking out the windows in drop-jawed wonder.</p>
  <p class="p1">Newton has never been to Hermann’s childhood home, of course, but he’d once caught half-formed memories of it from the Drift. Hermann had assumed they’d been forgotten, but apparently not, judging from Newton’s expression. He must have suspected their destination, but is still obviously emotional at seeing that hunch confirmed. Hermann just reaches over to squeeze his knee and says, “Come on. They’re waiting for us.”</p>
  <p class="p1">A tall, statuesque woman has, indeed, appeared on the front porch, and Hermann darts briefly through the rain to greet her.</p>
  <p class="p1">Karla looks older than when they last saw each other, but Hermann supposes he does, too, and when they embrace it is warm and earnest and, Lord. He forgets, every time. Forgets how much he misses his family, in all the years they live apart.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Baby brother,” she tells him, voice warm and teasing. “Welcome home.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Karla had inherited the house, after Mother’s death; Father had wanted to sell it and Bastien and Dietrich (and, yes, Hermann) had been, with one thing or another, too busy or too disinclined to retire to the mountains to care for it. Standing on the porch in his sister’s arms, Hermann is suddenly so overwhelming grateful to Karla for preserving it he does not know how to express the magnitude of the emotion. So instead he just splutters ineffectual thankyous, at least until Karla pushes him back enough to look into his eye, as mischievous as she ever was, and says:</p>
  <p class="p1">“Do you really think I would pass up this opportunity? Imagine Father’s face when he learns I’ve been using Mama’s home to shelter our family black sheep’s dangerous alien war criminal lover.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Ah,” says Hermann, as said dangerous alien war criminal makes his own way up the step, guitar case in one hand, suitcases rolling in his wake.</p>
  <p class="p1">“And you!” Karla’s attention turns immediately. “Finally, I get to meet the man who’s tormented my little brother so much for so long.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Um,” says Newton. Then, “Oof!” as he’s enveloped in a crushing hug. He shoots Hermann a look that’s equal parts <em>help</em> and <em>how are you two related</em> and Hermann only has time to smirk in response before Karla is pulling back, arm linking with Newton’s as she pulls him bodily into the house.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Come on. I have heard so many <em>fascinating</em> stories and I just know he is so anxious to see you again. He’s been baking for you all day.”</p>
  <p class="p1">Indeed, when Hermann follows them into the house, the place smells delicious; cinnamon and apple and roasting meat, comfortable and homey in a way meticulously plated slices of duck and expertly drizzled jus could never be. The interior of the house is less familiar than the outside; obviously renovated and repainted and re-furnished to Karla’s tastes. It is, Hermann is loathe to say, almost stereotypically Gemütlichkeit, with its large, inviting leather sectional and open fireplace and tastefully chunky wool throws and exposed wood and spilling potted plants and sheet music on the open piano that Hermann knows for a fact Karla does not play. About as far away from the cold concrete and rusted steel of the Shatterdome as it’s possible to be.</p>
  <p class="p1">And then the door closes, and someone deeper inside the house hears it, and a male voice calls out: “ . . . Newt?”</p>
  <p class="p1">And because they are still standing very close, Hermann hears Newton’s breath catch, and his throat click as he swallows and calls back, voice thready and unsure: “ . . . Dad?”</p>
  <p class="p1">And an aproned and flour-dusted Jacob Geiszler emerges from the kitchen.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann ends up on the back balcony, sitting with his sister on an obnoxiously comfortable outdoor sectional, watching the rain. They have slices of fresh-baked Streuselkuchen and Karla pours them each a glass of Pinot noir (<em>Spätburgunder</em>, corrects the contentedly home part of Hermann’s mind), even though it’s perhaps a smidge too early in the day. They’ve left the Geiszlers in the house; an illusion of privacy for what will no doubt be a rather awful conversation.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I gather you didn’t tell him this is where you stashed his father,” Karla, who is not an idiot, says.</p>
  <p class="p1">“I— We did not leave under ideal circumstances,” Hermann splutters. “And he was barely conscious for it as it was. Hardly in a position for me to explain the details.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mm,” says Karla, pointedly not mentioning the good half a day that’s transpired since. “Is he ill, then? He looks unwell.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I . . . I can’t tell you that.” True enough; Hermann’s in enough trouble with the PPDC as it is, without giving away the specifics of what occurred to a civilian. “But I assure you, I would not have brought him here if I thought him a danger. To yourself or to Jacob.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“And to you?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“For Heaven’s sake, Karla, we’ve just spent eleven hours alone together on an aeroplane. He hasn’t hurt me and he isn’t going to.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Not even a little light strangling this time? Some gentle brainwashing to convert you to his cause?” They’d discussed Tokyo, at least the rough shape of it, when Karla had come to visit him during his sabbatical. When Hermann had been grieving and deceived, circlet of bruises still ringing his throat.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Karla . . .” Hermann takes a furious mouthful of wine, scowls at the distant shadows of the mountains.</p>
  <p class="p1">This earns him a sigh. “All my life,” Karla says, “all I ever heard was about my little brother, the <em>sensible</em> one. Very proper, by-the-book.” She takes a perfectly melodramatic bite of cake. “Always knew it was bullshit.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“We had to get out. Things were . . .” The wine swirls like blood in the too-bulbous glass. “They’d brought in outsiders. Private sector, foreign military—”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Americans.” It’s not a question, so Hermann doesn’t answer it.</p>
  <p class="p1">“They were hurting him,” he says instead. “For all he’s done, I couldn’t sit back and allow . . . that.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Still my little baby brother, with his first schoolboy crush.”</p>
  <p class="p1">He hadn’t been <em>that</em> bad, honestly. “I asked him to marry me.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Of course you did,” says Karla, who knows him far too well. “By throwing a stack of government documents at him and insisting it would be the most rational and legally advantageous solution, I assume?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I— Karla, please!”</p>
  <p class="p1">This earns him a look that makes him feel roughly six years old. “I was actually joking,” Karla says.</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sniffs, and looks away, and pretends his blush is just from the wine.</p>
  <p class="p1">For a while, they just listen to the rain. Then: “What happens now?”</p>
  <p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “I asked for the opportunity to go to trial, and amnesty while its outcome is being decided,” he says. “I assume the PPDC has already started howling for our heads and the Americans will be seeking extradition as soon as they realize Newton is no longer available to them via bullying the Council.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“He’s still a citizen?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Mm.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“You’re sure they’d want him back?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Karla, the man planned and executed the single most devastating military attack the planet has ever endured, has a head full of alien knowledge, <em>and</em> is the only insight we have into the minds of our greatest existential threat. He is literally the most valuable military and scientific resource on the planet. I assume the entire world intelligence community is splicing your broadband as we speak.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I was wondering why Netflix was running slow.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“<em>That</em> would be your porn torrents,” Hermann says, and gets a piece of cake thrown at him for his efforts.</p>
  <hr/>
  <p class="p1"><a></a>Newton and his father emerge after nearly two hours; the former looks shell-shocked and the latter has obviously been crying, but also keeps touching his son as if unsure he’s really, truly present.</p>
  <p class="p1">A sense of propriety makes Hermann stand to greet Jacob, as they hadn’t really had the opportunity on arrival. He gets halfway through extending a hand before he’s pulled into an absolutely bone-crushing hug which, yes, he really should’ve expected.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Thank you,” Jacob is saying. “God, Hermann,<em> thank you</em>. I can never repay you for what you’ve done. For me, for my boy.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“I— that . . . that’s really not necessary,” Hermann manages, awkwardly patting Jacob on the back with his free hand. Lord, he’s comfortably middle-aged. How is he still so awful at this sort of thing? And a pleading look to Newton only results in an expression Hermann translates as <em>serves you right</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">“That’s why you deserve it,” Jacob is saying. He sniffs, gives Hermann one last squeeze and a little shake, then makes himself back away. “It will be an honor to have you as part of our family.”</p>
  <p class="p1">“W— Told Dad you’d be changing your name,” Newton lies, blithely, if perhaps not as confidently as usual.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Only when you change yours, also.” Hermann receives an almost heartbreakingly grateful look for the bickering.</p>
  <p class="p1">“We could make a smushname,” Newton says, throwing himself onto the sectional, next to where Hermann had been sitting. “Gottler? Geiszleib?”</p>
  <p class="p1">“Absolutely not.” (Karla giggles, the traitor.)</p>
  <p class="p1">“Newmann?”</p>
  <p class="p1"><em>Too soon,</em> thinks Hermann, even as he heaves an exaggerated sigh, and pointedly offers Jacob a drink.</p>
  <p class="p1">So they sit on the balcony, and watch the sunset and the rain. Karla produces blankets from a box when it grows cold, and Hermann and Newton share theirs, pressed close together, Hermann’s hand settled comfortably on Newton’s thigh. Hermann and Karla and Jacob finish off the wine. Newton eats far too much cake, to his father’s delight (<em>you got so skinny, in Shanghai</em>), still claiming his body needs the calories.</p>
  <p class="p1">(He says “meat”, of course. Then, when Karla startles, pretends he’s just forgotten the correct word in German. Hermann squeezes his knee beneath the blanket, reassuring.)</p>
  <p class="p1">Jacob is apparently the keen gardener, and regales his son with the various flora and fauna he’s discovered and the landscaping Karla has given him free reign to experiment with. Karla, meanwhile, gossips about the family and the consulting she’s been doing to keep herself occupied in semi-retirement. At one point a cat appears, and curls up on her lap, and it’s all just . . .</p>
  <p class="p1">Lord, it’s <em>good</em>.</p>
  <p class="p1">No one talks about the War or the Precursors or the kaiju or the Jaeger or the Throat or the Breach or bioweapons or waterboarding. No one demands Hermann transcend the laws of physics of Newton the limits of the human psyche. The night beyond is cold and wet but beneath the eaves of Mother’s house they are warm and soft and companionable. So much so that, when dinner is ready, they eat it outside, plates sitting in their laps. Roast pork with thick crackling, potato salad (<em>real</em> potato salad, not the slop the DFAC occasionally serves), bean salad, dumplings and, yes, Karla’s homemade sauerkraut. Karla also opens a bottle of Riesling, and she and Hermann and Jacob get somewhat tipsy and rather loud, and eat far too much food. And <em>then</em> Jacob brings out Herrencreme pudding, and Hermann rather drunkenly and entirely earnestly makes Newton swear to collect and reassemble the pieces of him after he’s exploded.</p>
  <p class="p1">“Who are you and what have you done with Hermann?” Newton asks him, though his expression is Newt-soft. And also very close, because Hermann has an arm thrown over his shoulders and has pulled them flush against each others’ sides. Hermann kisses him, brief and chaste but both Karla and Jacob protest in mock outrage, and it’s brilliant and beautiful and, good Lord, this is Hermann’s fiancé and tomorrow everything will likely get very hard and very painful but, for now, they can sit here and be together and Hermann can pretend that everything is fine.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>You will never not convinced me Newt can canonically teleport because there's no other logical explanation for how he got from Shanghai to Tokyo while being, like, literally the world's most wanted terrorist. ("He just took one of the--" No. No I don't think you understand how air travel works, even private air travel.)</p><p>
  <em>And love is not the answer if you're <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sfcrjRXZVqo">taking me for a ride</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. “I absolutely cannot let you marry a man who thinks that sort of behavior is acceptable.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TIL writing this fic: German government departments have the most baller acronyms.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann wakes in his old bedroom, on someone else’s bed, staring at someone else’s furniture, and is immediately subjected to the strangest sense of jamais vu. It’s vertiginous and disorientating and it takes his slightly hungover brain some time to recognize where his is.</p>
<p class="p1">Karla’s. Right. Of course. She’d turned Hermann’s old bedroom into a guest room, and had taken immense delight in teasing him with endless <em>I left your room just like it used to be</em>s before opening the door and revealing that to, in fact, not be the case.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann had, of course, taken equal delight in reminding her that Newton had already seen his room, in the Drift, thank you very much, and this Hermann was long since over any embarrassment. To which Newton had immediately replied he’d won a bet with Tendo over the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling.</p>
<p class="p1">The stars are long gone, though Karla has replaced them with a string of star-shaped fairy lights above the bed. It’s so dreadfully Instagrammable Hermann wonders if she’d been considering renting the rooms at some point. Or perhaps she had done; it occurs to him he wouldn’t necessarily know. Karla herself could’ve moved into the flat out the back, the one Oma had lived in, and that Jacob currently occupies. Hermann wonders if he’s managed to interrupt her, as Newton would say, quote-unquote “side hustle.”</p>
<p class="p1">Speaking of: Hermann is alone in the bed.</p>
<p class="p1">He sighs, mentally farewells the notion of sleepy cuddles and perhaps a blow job, and pulls himself wearily into the waking world.</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not cold, which is yet another pleasant surprise when compared to the Shatterdome. There’s a plush navy robe hanging from the back of the door and Hermann shrugs into it. Another benefit of being at home; not having to get dressed immediately upon waking, and Hermann intends to indulge in this luxury while he can.</p>
<p class="p1">Karla is in the kitchen when he ventures downstairs, lounging on the little padded bench. She gives him a frightfully wicked look as he enters, shuffling his way over to the breakfast bar.</p>
<p class="p1">“Out with it,” he says, trying to decide between the espresso machine and the Keurig. He did used to be able to pull a mean latte back in his barista days but that was, Lord, over twenty years ago now. Keurig it is.</p>
<p class="p1">“When I agreed to shelter your fugitive fiancé,” Karla says, “I feel you obtained my consent by withholding some very pertinent facts.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann sighs, picks something disgusting but caffeinated out of the pod canister, and starts making his coffee. “What has he done to offend you so?”</p>
<p class="p1">“He got up at <em>dawn</em>, Hermann,” Karla says. “To do <em>exercise</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Verily, a marker of true evil.”</p>
<p class="p1">“It was yoga, little brother mine. An hour of downward dog, right in my very own backyard. It’s obscene. No one actually greets the sun with Greet the Sun.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You should write the Security Council, present your evidence. I’m sure they’re building a case as we speak.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, it gets worse. He moved on to CrossFit. He did burpees, Hermann. I absolutely cannot let you marry a man who thinks that sort of behavior is acceptable.”</p>
<p class="p1">“How fortunate I am to have such a caring sister to look out for me, lest I throw my lot in with such a fellow.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Then, when I—completely innocently, mind you—offered him breakfast, he asked if I had a blender. I said I did, and do you know what he did with it, Hermann? Do you what depravity I have witnessed this very morning?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Does it involve raw eggs, by any chance?” asks Hermann, who is tremendously good at educated guesses. One could say he’s world renowned for it, in fact. “And perhaps kale?”</p>
<p class="p1">“He had to settle for spinach. And a banana. An turmeric. Did I mention the raw eggs?”</p>
<p class="p1">“You did not, no. I did. Let me guess: he drank this concoction himself, without so much as forcing a single sip past your lips. Then he very politely cleaned up after himself and, to make matters worse, made himself a coffee which he then put butter in, rather than milk. Did he even offer to make you a regular coffee, with actual milk, while he had the machine on? How truly dastardly that would be.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Hermann,” says Karla. “For twenty years I have been promised a disastrously self-absorbed manchild who lives entirely on a diet of energy drinks and vending machine snacks. What happened?”</p>
<p class="p1">Now fortified with his (entirely awful) mug of pod-birthed coffee, Hermann turns to face his sister. “Did I neglect to mention the part where he had his brain and personality forcibly re-wired by hostile aliens for a decade? I think I must have mentioned this at some point.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Aliens turned your fiancé into a health fanatic? Where does one get some of these aliens, pray tell?”</p>
<p class="p1">“BfArM won’t approve them for market; keeps saying something about side effects.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Like glutes you could bounce a euro off of?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sure that’s exactly their main concern, yes.” There’s a box of pastries on the counter, maybe a day or so old, but still acceptable. Hermann helps himself to a pain au chocolat. “Also, please do not ogle my fiancé’s buttocks.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Have you seen the tiny little shorts he wears?” Karla’s expression is absolutely wicked. “A man does not wear shorts like that if he does not want to be ogled.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I am leaving this conversation,” Hermann announces, breakfast acquired. “I suggest you do the same. And reconsider your life choices as you do.”</p>
<p class="p1">Karla’s laughter—at his hypocrisy, most likely—follows him from the kitchen.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>He finds Newton on the couch from last night, still in his workout clothes and a suspiciously familiar robe, tapping away at a tablet, empty cup of coffee on the table next to him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Where did you get a tablet from?” Hermann asks as he approaches. He receives an absolutely heart-melting smile when Newt looks up at him, then curls up his legs to make room for Hermann to sit.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yo, Holiday Herms!” come in lieu of an answer. Then, softer: “You look relaxed. It’s good.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I suspect it won’t last,” Hermann says. “But I’m determined to enjoy it while it does. More importantly, did you steal that tablet from Liwen Shao’s plane? Did you steal that <em>robe</em> from Liwen Shao’s plane?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oops.” Newton wiggles his eyebrows, grinning and unrepentant.</p>
<p class="p1">“Newton . . .”</p>
<p class="p1">The tone earns him a <em>pffft</em> and a: “She can deduct the cost from the millions in patent royalties she would’ve owed us if we’d, like. Not been planning on the world ending and had actually bothered with that shit.”</p>
<p class="p1">“A tremendously compelling argument that the courts will no doubt wholeheartedly support,” Hermann says. “While you’re illicitly communicating with the outside world, any word on whether we’re internally wanted fugitives yet?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Not a peep.” Newton pushes his feet against Hermann’s thigh, toes wiggling. Just for the contact, near as Hermann can tell. It’s . . . sweet. “Tendo says hi, though.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Of <em>course</em> you’ve been talking to Tendo.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You know Tendo, still Operational Chief of Gossip-Tech. He’d heard a rumor you’d absconded from the ‘Dome and was worried. We told him you were fine but, like. Now he probably just thinks we’ve kidnapped you for nefarious purposes? You should message him and let him know you’re actually okay. Also, we are totally down with some ‘nefarious purposes’, if you know what we mean.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann sighs, though it’s mostly affected. “You’re feeling better then, I see.” He takes a sip of coffee, then winces. “Lord, this is awful.” He is absolutely going to have to resurrect the ghost of grad school barista Hermann. One of the very few benefits of living in the Shatterdome was the actually rather decent DFAC cafe, and Hermann does not intend to settle for anything less now he’s out.</p>
<p class="p1">“Still a bit shivery,” Newton says, “but, yeah. Things seem to be settling down.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I have been informed you spent all morning exercising,” Hermann says. “Which I’m sure you do not need me to inform you you should not do whilst ill.”</p>
<p class="p1">“We’re not ‘ill’, dude. We’re, like, having an immunoresponse to a virally delivered genetic manipulation that’s causing our entire metabolism to re-wire itself from the inside out. Working said metabolism should help the process.” A pause. “Or kill us. But almost certainly probably not. That probably would’ve already happened, if it was going to.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann exhales. He knows this is just Newton being himself. But it still sends his heart clenching. In fear, and no small amount of anger, and he pushes both down. He is still so furious about . . . everything, is still trying to work out who he’s furious <em>with</em>; Newton or Stone or himself or Shao or all four. But more than that, he’s exhausted. And yelling and carrying on won’t fix any of the things that have been broken.</p>
<p class="p1">So:</p>
<p class="p1">“Please at least wait until we’ve formally wed to make a widower of me,” he says. He did, after all, spend his formative years in Britain. What would he be without a little emotional repression?</p>
<p class="p1">Newton shifts, wriggling around until he’s pressed bodily against Hermann’s side. “Hey,” he says, and his voice is soft and serious enough that Hermann looks at him. “We told you we didn’t intend to die,” Newton says. “We meant it. You’re stuck with us now, bud.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Do not call me ‘bud’,” Hermann says, and kisses him.</p>
<p class="p1">It is tremendously good, as it always is; Hermann’s hands worm underneath Newton stolen robe and obtain handfuls of firm, barely-covered arse. Newton giggles an <em>oooh, frisky</em> at the contact and presses closer, pushing Hermann into the plush couch cushions, strong hands supporting his back and his bad leg, gently nudging open his thighs. Hermann moans into their kiss, soft and secretive, and shifts his hips to something more obliging.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh fuck yeah,” Newton murmurs. “We are so fucking hot for you dude like you would not believe.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “The, ah. As loathe as I am to dampen your ardor, the government will likely be here soon.” One of Newton’s hands has come up tocup his jaw, tilting it back so he can mouth and press kisses along the flesh.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck the government.” The words ghost against his skin, sending a most excellent shiver down every limb.</p>
<p class="p1">“I can think of—” is as far as Hermann gets, before a strangely bristly banging from above sends them leaping apart, startled and alert and staring through the window behind the couch, the one Karla has just banged on with the business end of a broom.</p>
<p class="p1">“Get a room!” she shouts, voice muffled through the double glazing. Hermann just buries his burning face in his hands, while Newton laughs, startled and happy and free.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>They do get a room, specifically the shower in the bathroom, which does lead to some mild nefarious activity.</p>
<p class="p1">“Gonna have you fuck us,” Newton pants into Hermann’s ear, pressing him against the wall of the shower. Hand furiously working his prick. “Wanted it for <em>years</em>. This big, fat cock right up our tight little ass.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, Lord,” says Hermann, and comes all over Karla’s faux marble tiles.</p>
<p class="p1">“You, ah. Your little . . . hesitation appears to have resolved itself,” Hermann says, later. Newton had been very keen on assisting him dry off and Hermann, in a rare moment of relaxed obsequiousness, had allowed it.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton pauses, eyes flicking to Hermann then away. “We . . . didn’t hurt you,” he finally admits, uncharacteristically hesitant and small. “After . . . after Alice. We still knew you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann had suspected as much, but Newton confirming it feels like a moment of profound vulnerability all the same. “Oh, darling,” he says, and pulls Newton into an embrace. One that, after a moment, is returned wholeheartedly; strong arms wrapping fully around Hermann’s back.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck this feels good,” Newton murmurs, and Hermann does not disagree.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>When he arrives, the representative gives his name as Ben Müller and tells them he’s from the BAMF, both of which Hermann immediately suspects are lies. Nonetheless, Müller is is his early fifties, with salt-pepper hair and a slightly shabby suit and the general air of an over-harried career bureaucrat. He greets them both with their titles and does not hesitate to shake Newton’s hand or look him in his inscrutable, unblinking eyes, and Hermann decides to trust him, at least until proven otherwise.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton is back to his hard-edged persona, which is somewhat startling after several days spent continuously with his softer, more Newt-like self. He says very little unless directly addressed, and his responses are curt and businesslike and sans the adornment of his usual litany of <em>like</em>s and <em>dude</em>s. But he does speak with Müller and does so honestly; does not try and pretend he’s something he’s not, does not deflect when asked about what he’s done or why, and does not try and cover for his use of plural pronouns to refer to himself. Müller obviously finds the exchange both fascinating and slightly unsettling and, when the initial interview is over, he sits back with a loud exhale and says:</p>
<p class="p1">“I will not lie, Doctors; this situation is certainly unique. But not entirely without precedent all the same; ours is a nation very used to trying to heal men from the scars of regrettable choices, made in war.”</p>
<p class="p1">“All we seek is due process,” Hermann says, and Müller nods. They’re seated on the sectional in Karla’s living room, coffee and leftover Streuselkuchen on the table.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, of course. You realize there are . . . logistical hurdles, of course.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann’s fingers tighten, just slightly, where they’re threaded through Newton’s. “Such as?”</p>
<p class="p1">“The Americans, for one.” Müller takes a sip of his coffee. He turns to address Newton: “You’re still a citizen and their policy is their claim to you takes precedence. They’re seeking to extradite.”</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ll renounce it,” Newton says, utterly unaffected. “It no longer matters to us.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann thinks this is not entirely true; Newt loves the trappings of his adopted county, loves his expat childhood, loves his alma mater. But this version of him is ruthlessly pragmatic, too. And will not soon forget the accents on the men who brought him so much torment.</p>
<p class="p1">Müller sighs. “It may not be so simple,” he says. “Formally, you would have to inform them of this in person, at their embassy.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Absolutely not!” Hermann says. “If he sets foot on American soil—”</p>
<p class="p1">Müller holds up a hand, placating. “The Foreign Office will attempt to negotiate on your behalf, of course,” he tells Newton. “You’re still German by birth, and have neither lived in nor held assets in the US for decades. We will argue as much, though they will likely send the taxman after you regardless.”</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ve paid our taxes,” Newton says, with the briefest hint of an amused smirk. “Our accountant will have the details.”</p>
<p class="p1">“The PPDC froze Newton’s assets after Tokyo,” Hermann adds and, Lord. Alien invasions and the end of the world, but <em>of course</em> it all boils down to petty bureaucracy, in the end. “They’ve had custodianship ever since.”</p>
<p class="p1">“The PPDC are our . . . other hurdle,” Müller says. “They’re claiming rights to you under the International Treaty for the Handling and Disposal of Extraterrestrial Biohazardous Material, and are very insistent on reminding us Germany is a signatory.”</p>
<p class="p1">“That is outrageous,” Hermann says. “Newton is a— a living person, not a washed-up kaiju corpse!”</p>
<p class="p1">“A living person with a known history of self-inflicted biological manipulation and ready access to alien material,” Müller points out, and damn the PPDC for very likely not knowing how right their guess was. “If the PPDC was insistent on objectively establishing your . . . how do I put this delicately? Biological humanity, can you assure us they would have no grounds for their claim?”</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ll help the Corps in their war,” Newton says, and no one misses he does not answer the question. “We chose this world and we’ll help protect it. They don’t need to make threats.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Newton’s cooperation with K-Science was exemplary during his detention,” Hermann adds. “<em>And</em> he had taken it upon himself tutor our young cadets in their schoolwork when they requested it of him. The only thing he ever asked in return was humane treatment, and the only issues we ever had arose when he did not receive it.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I see,” says Müller. “This is . . . You realize the seriousness of your accusations, of course.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Mr. Müller,” Hermann says, “I have devoted my entire adult life to the PPDC and its goals, often at great personal cost. I think you’ll find I am <em>more</em> than cognizant of the implications an accusation of war crimes will have, not just to the organization itself but to the entire world. And yet, please understand I can not in good conscience take any other route. Not only were the tortures inflicted on Newton inhumane and illegal but they were <em>demonstrably</em> ineffective. And what I witnessed were nothing so simple as the actions of a single, overzealous Marshal. What they did was organized. Condoned. It had external support. I believe in the PPDC and in its work but I will not, will <em>not</em>, allow a misplaced sense of blind loyalty to seal my mouth on this issue. My preference is to address these transgressions via the appropriate channels but mark my words I <em>will</em> see them addressed, and I <em>will</em> see people held accountable for decisions which, quite frankly, had the potential to endanger the very survival of Earth itself. Do I make myself clear?”</p>
<p class="p1">Müller looks, well. Taken aback, is perhaps the only word for it. He blinks and clears his throat and obviously tries to recover his composure, and meanwhile Hermann tamps down his own embarrassment at the outburst. He stands behind it. He will not feel ashamed.</p>
<p class="p1">“I . . . uh. Thank you, Doctor Gottlieb,” Müller eventually says. “That . . . that certainly provides context.”</p>
<p class="p1">And for the first time since Müller arrived, Newton grins, and leans back, arm thrown out along the back of the couch behind Hermann. “Don’t look so shocked,” he says. “You’re talking to the man who took on the entire Anteverse and won. Twice. If you think a bit of red tape is going to stop him now? Do we have some news for you.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>By the time Müller leaves—taking the completed marriage application with a wry “congratulations”—it’s a little after lunchtime, and Jacob is busy in the kitchen. He hugs Newton as soon as he sees him, apparently still overwhelmed at the fact he finally <em>can</em>. Then he hands Newton a knife and a tomato, and tells him to get chopping.</p>
<p class="p1">“He’s truly a wonder,” Karla says, as she and Hermann watch the Geiszlers from the living room. “He cooks, he cleans, he buys groceries, he works in the garden, <em>and</em> he plays piano like an angel.”</p>
<p class="p1">“He’s been lonely, I think,” Hermann says. “He raised Newt along with his brother. Illia passed away some years back, and with Newton being . . . estranged, he’s been rather alone.” They’re speaking softly but likely don’t need to be; the Geiszler men are <em>loud</em>, big voices and big laughter, and it warms Hermann’s heart to see it. Newton still has a hesitance to him, interacting with his father. But his expression is Newt-soft and it’s clear he’s trying desperately to make up for . . . everything.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hm,” says Karla. She’s eyeing Newton like a particularly hostile witness, and Hermann is not at a surprised when she says: “We were eavesdropping, before. Just a little.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Karla . . .”</p>
<p class="p1">“Can you blame us?” She shrugs, unrepentant. “He’s quite terrifying, when he wants to be, isn’t he? Which do you think is the real Newton Geiszler? The man in there”—she gestures to the kitchen, where Newton and his father are currently in a heated argument over the parts of an onion—“or the one from in here?”</p>
<p class="p1">“They both are,” says Hermann, unfazed.</p>
<p class="p1">“He refers to himself in the plural. When he thinks we aren’t listening.”</p>
<p class="p1">Now it’s Hermann’s turn to shrug. “Hardly a world-ending affectation.”</p>
<p class="p1">“This time, you mean.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes, actually,” Hermann says. “Any more than that is his business and I’m not comfortable discussing it without his consent.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You are tremendously stubborn,” says Karla. “You know I just worry for you. My baby brother, how could I not?”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann rises from the couch, angles himself towards the kitchen. “You and everyone else on the planet,” he says. “And while it’s appreciated in the abstract, honestly? It’s getting rather tiresome.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>“You’re peeling.”</p>
<p class="p1">Nighttime. Hermann is already in bed, propped up and re-reading the much-loved, extremely battered childhood copy of <em>Gläserne Bienen</em> he’d found tucked away on Karla’s shelves. Newton is returning from his evening shower, clad in nothing but a towel and his tattoos, and even with the latter the flaking strips down his spine and flanks are both painful-looking and painfully obvious.</p>
<p class="p1">“Hm? Oh. Yeah.” Newton gives himself only the most perfunctory glance-over before his attention laser-focuses on Hermann. “Fuck you’re sexy when you look over your glasses like that.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Is it sunburn? I would say that would teach you to wear more clothing whilst exercising but we both know it likely won’t.”</p>
<p class="p1">This just earns him a laugh, Newton whipping off his towel and draping it neatly over the foot of the bed. Then he throws himself, not gently, down onto the duvet, rolling into an exaggeratedly sexy pose, head propped on one hand, the other draped across his raised knee.</p>
<p class="p1">“Why, Doctor Gottlieb,” he says. “Fancy meeting like this. Come here often?”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann gives him one disdainful flick of his eyes over his glasses, mostly because he knows it drives Newton utterly barmy. “Hardly,” he sniffs. “It used to have character, but the new owner completely stripped it of its charm.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, we can see <em>plenty</em> of charm from where we’re sitting.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I doubt that very much.” Hermann pretends to go back to his book, even turns a page for verisimilitude.</p>
<p class="p1">“We could show you.” He squirms very slightly closer, hand shamelessly caressing Hermann’s thigh through the duvet.</p>
<p class="p1">“Are you always this forward?” Hermann asks, pushing down the urge to squirm himself. Newton is very close, and very naked, and very warm from his shower, and also very interested, if his half-hard prick is anything to go by.</p>
<p class="p1">“Nope,” Newton says, pressing closer. “We just have this thing for sexy mathematicians with frumpy grandpa glasses who always look like they’re about to fail us out of their undergrad math courses.”</p>
<p class="p1">“If you insist on calling it ‘math’ then yes, you absolutely deserve to fail.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck yes critique our perfectly valid English some more. It gets us so fucking hot.” Practically breathed into Hermann’s eagerly parted lips.</p>
<p class="p1">“Would you like some opinions on your German, while we’re at it?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck yeah.” Newton actually shivers, and they both press together with the thump of Hermann’s book, falling to the floor.</p>
<p class="p1">They kiss, open-mouthed and hungry and unrestrained, Newton pressing Hermann down into the mattress, not gently. Lord, he’s strong; far stronger than Newt ever used to be, all lean, corded muscle, and Hermann runs his hands over firm biceps and deltoids in unselfconscious appreciation.</p>
<p class="p1">“Want your cock,” Newton says, kissed and bitten into Hermann’s lips, his jaw, his neck. “Want it in us. Waited so long for it.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You’ll have to promise to be quiet,” Hermann teases, undulating his body against Newton’s as best as he’s able. “If Karla hears us we are never having having sex in this house again.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton groans. “C’mon man. We’re still trying for the first time!” But he does at least attempt to lower his voice.</p>
<p class="p1">“Blow jobs are sex, Newton. And mutual masturbation.”</p>
<p class="p1">“What happened to your moral objection to torture?”</p>
<p class="p1">“We can stop an— ah! Any time, darling.” The last because Newton has bitten at the soft flesh of his earlobe, sending a delicious shiver singing through Hermann’s every nerve.</p>
<p class="p1">With a growl, Newton throws back the duvet, then laughs in delight when he sees Hermann is naked and hard beneath it. “Fuck yeah!” he says, dropping his head to lick and suck and kiss across Hermann’s chest, knees still planted wide on the bed and arse presented deliciously in the air, spine rolling into a truly incredible convex curve. Hermann graphs it with his hands; the broad canvasses of trapezius and latissimus dorsi, filled and overflowing with color and passionate, roiling life.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton’s mouth descends, teeth lightly scraping against a tight nipple, making Hermann gasp and laugh. Lips kiss into the flat hollow of his sternum, strong hands stroking up and down his flanks. Newton has shifted so his thighs straddle Hermann’s, still arched into his obscene parabola, heat of his chest radiating against Hermann’s straining prick, always slightly too far up to rut and roll against. Hermann’s heart is humming, his breath coming in hitching little gasps. Lord, he <em>wants</em>. His body feels like a furnace, throbbing and needy and kept pressed against the bed by gentle, too-strong hands.</p>
<p class="p1">And still Newton’s mouth progresses downwards. Kissing the fluttering hollow of his stomach, tongue pressing into his belly button in a way that makes him gasp and splutter laughter. And then . . .</p>
<p class="p1">“Newton!”</p>
<p class="p1">The barest brush of breath, ghosting across the damp head of his prick. The wet sound of lips parting, and—</p>
<p class="p1">And Newton rolls himself upright.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann looses an entirely undignified keen at the loss of contact, of heat, and when he opens his eyes it’s to scowl at the (at least from this angle) towering, grinning, unrepentant riot of color that is Newton Geiszler.</p>
<p class="p1">“Think this is our favorite sight in the whole damn world,” Newton says, lips parted, tongue stroking lasciviously over his canine. His prick is a pale, unpainted stripe, stark and obvious against the color of his abdomen. When he sees Hermann looking, he strokes it. Once, twice; lazy and unhurried. “Get you so fucking worked up, just . . . pin you down and watch you writhe.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Newton, Lord help me, if you do not— not <em>do something</em>—”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton actually laughs at him—that vicious, predatory edge Newt never had—though it’s tempered somewhat as he runs a soothing hand down Hermann’s heaving sides.</p>
<p class="p1">“Relax, babe. Gonna make you feel so good.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Do not call me ‘babe.’”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton actually <em>winks</em> at him, the horrible little creature. Then he’s leaning forward, opening the bedside table’s top drawer.</p>
<p class="p1">For a moment Hermann has a spike of panic that they do not have the appropriate items to actually do this. But, no; Newton pulls out a condom and a bottle of lube and tosses the former onto Hermann’s chest.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann scowls at him for the— the <em>flippancy</em> of the move; the disrespect. Like Newton is treating Hermann as some fleeting conquest, some hook-up. Someone he’s dragged up to his sterile, expensive apartment, perhaps; bought and paid for with cash or influence or favors. To be physically used and emotionally stonewalled, disposable and insignificant. Objectively, Hermann knows this is not even slightly true . . . and perhaps that makes the fantasy of it all the more appealing. The thrilling edge of something dirty, something wrong and shameful, cupped carefully in the gentle knowledge that, were Hermann truly upset, or uncomfortable, or ashamed, then Newton would stop.</p>
<p class="p1">“I suppose you stole those from the plane, too,” Hermann snaps, squirming in affected humiliation and very, very real arousal.</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ll send Shao a <em>very</em> detailed thank you note.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You will do no such thing!” Which earns him another laugh, Newton squeezing out a generous portion of lube onto his fingers.</p>
<p class="p1">“You know,” he says, too cold and too casual. “Lube is one of the only things you can’t really buy a better version of, when you’re rich. Can buy a fucking sixty thousand dollar bottle of Acqua di Cristallo Tributo a Modigliani—that’s bottled water, just fucking water—but lube? Nope. Lube is lube.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I sincerely doubt sixty thousand dollar water is worth the cost.”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s not,” says Newton, with the disdainful air of a man who knows (good Lord). He reaches around behind himself, muscles in his abdomen rippling sinfully as he says: “Maybe there’s a— ah, a market there. Untapped. Now we’re, oh fuck yeah. Unemployed. Mix up a great big v-vat of cellulose ether, get— get someone to make big diamond-encrusted, solid gold, dick-shaped bottles . . . Fuck.”</p>
<p class="p1">The sight of him, babbling nonsense, opening himself up on his own hand, is almost enough to make Hermann come right there. He grabs at the base of his prick, pulling at his balls, to stop it. Newton notices, one eye closed in concentration, the other fixed on Hermann, grin sharp enough to rend flesh.</p>
<p class="p1">“That doin’ it for you babe?” he asks. “Listen— listening to our startup pitch?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Rather the opposite.” Hermann’s voice is husky, breathless. “But I suppose as it’s keeping me for the main event, shall we say, I shan’t particularly complain.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck yeah.” Newton closes both eyes, arches his whole body back as he laughs, shamelessly riding his own fingers, <em>displaying</em> for Hermann’s pleasure. “Haven’t— haven’t done this in so long. So fucking hungry for it. Even our fingers feel amazing.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I suspect I have something that will feel better.” Said as primly as he can currently manage, and eliciting another vicious, delighted, vaguely unhinged laugh from the man above him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Get ready then.” Newton gestures to the condom with his chin, and Hermann hums and picks up the packet.</p>
<p class="p1">“So what’s gonna— gonna happen,” Newton says, “is you’re gonna get yourself <em>real</em> comfy, whatever feels good babe, just lying back and presenting that beautiful big cock for us. Cause we’re gonna take it all, right down to the base. And then we’re gonna fucking ride it all the way back to the Anteverse.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Not quite the— the known mechanism of Breach operation, but we shall have to see.” He rolls the condom down easily; it’s tastefully beige, which is Hermann can appreciate, even in this particular moment (he loathes the all-too-common lurid colors; he’s trying for a shag, not a day trip to Ocean Park). Newton watches him with undisguised lust, chest sweat-slick and heaving, and there’s a softness that threatens to creep in around the edges of his current persona. This is, Hermann supposes, technically their “first time”, in as much as people keep track of those things. It’s certainly the first time Newton’s been able to be this . . . himself, this open, without succumbing to his own fears, and the thought brings a softness to Hermann’s expression, too. He strokes Newton’s (appealingly firm) thigh and, for a moment, they simply . . . are.</p>
<p class="p1">“Gonna be okay if we go like this?” Newton asks, almost shyly. “Or is there some other way . . .?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah . . . on the side, perhaps?” Hermann can take the weight on his hips for a little while, but there’ll always be an edge and a threat there he can do without, at least tonight.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah,” says Newton, eagerly hopping off. “Yeah, however you want.”</p>
<p class="p1">There’s a bit of awkward shuffling as they get into place, spooning on their sides, towel laid out beneath them, Hermann’s weight on his good leg. He urges Newton’s thigh up and his spine back into its delicious arch, presenting himself for use, and Hermann has to grip himself again at the sight. Newton’s tattoos extend right into the cleft of his arse (being a tattoo artist must certainly be an... interesting profession), grotesque Anteverse undulations and the tails of Slattern and Otachi, curled protectively over glutes that (yes) could, indeed, bounce a euro.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann groans as he eases past it all. Newton has been extremely generous with the lube, practically dripping with it, and the feel of those slick-firm cheeks is almost enough to make Hermann come.</p>
<p class="p1">And then his cockhead pushes against the hungry ring of Newton’s hole, and he has to bite down on a tattooed shoulder, hard.</p>
<p class="p1">“H-Herms?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck,” Hermann mutters. “I just need—”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton . . . does something. Rolls the muscles of his pelvis, and Hermann’s prick slips inside.</p>
<p class="p1">“Lord!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck please. More. We want it, want you in us. We can’t—” He shifts again, taking more of Hermann inside of him; so hot and so slick and, <em>Lord</em>.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes,” Hermann gasps. “Yes, alright.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton lets loose an absolutely filthy moan—lust and relief and longing and want—and pushes back, taking Hermann to the root in one slick, smooth motion.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh fuck <em>yes</em>!” he exclaims, far to loudly. Hermann shushes him, looping an arm over his shoulder and pushing fingers past his lips. Newton sucks on them, hungry, and his hips begin to roll. It takes him a while to find a rhythm in the unfamiliar position, and Hermann is glad of it; it gives him a moment to compose himself, to think decidedly unsexy thoughts; the cold of the Shatterdome floors, calculating the digits of <em>e</em> (despite Newton’s frequent assertions to the contrary, mathematics does not actually make him randy), the fact that it’s existentially imperative Karla does not hear them.</p>
<p class="p1">When Newton finally finds what he’s looking for, his whole body goes momentarily stiff. When he starts up again his pace is almost frantic, taking his pleasure in exactly the way he’d promised. There’s not much Hermann need do but hang on, and he does so, fingers gripping tightly against sweat-slick flesh. Newton twists his torso around, mouth capturing Hermann’s in an absolutely filthy kiss, one hand laced with Hermann’s and the other gripping a scarred, twisted hip with a desperate gentleness so brightly at odds with the rest of his frantic, lust-gone writhing.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton mutters a litany of filth into Hermann’s mouth and Hermann chases it with his own nonsense, and soon all they can do is pant each other’s names. The position they’re in is somehow both lurid and incredibly intimate, and the thought of what they must look like, so starkly different yet so obviously entwined, builds the tightness and the heat below Hermann’s belly.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh Lord,” he gasps. “I can’t— much longer . . .”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s not terribly articulate but Newton gets the message, subtly changing the angle and pace of his movements. He also removes his hand from Hermann’s hip (which should not feel as . . . cold and bereft as it does) and reaches around to grasp his own prick. Hermann joins him, and they lace their fingers together over hot, straining flesh.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck!” Newton says, kissed straight against Hermann’s lips. Then his hips buck, once, and he’s coming in hot, thick spurts. The feel of it, of the shudder of his body and the clenching of his muscles, brings Hermann with him, fingers grasping hard enough to bruise, climax hitting him like supernovas, a roiling wave of heat and pleasure and release, a chain cascade that peaks and falls and peaks again, until he’s left shivering and spent and exhausted and very, very, very happy.</p>
<p class="p1">Afterwards, they lay there for one breath. Then two. Then Newton starts laughing.</p>
<p class="p1">“Fuck,” he says, blissful. “Fucking <em>nailed</em> it.”</p>
<p class="p1">“You are utterly awful,” Hermann tells him, kissing his shoulder tenderly and pulling out as gently as he can. They clean up, wiping themselves off, tossing the condom into the trash.</p>
<p class="p1">They end up beneath the duvet, Hermann on his back, Newton curled tenderly against his chest. Hermann feels warm and sleepy and well-fucked, and it is tremendously good.</p>
<p class="p1">“Was . . . was that okay?” Newton asks, after a period of silence. “It wasn’t . . . too much?”</p>
<p class="p1">Quite abruptly, Hermann realizes Newton had, at least in part, been <em>testing </em>himself. Keeping himself in that sharp, callous persona, making sure he could trust himself—trust all of himself—to still treat Hermann kindly and well, even in so vulnerable a situation.</p>
<p class="p1">“It was perfect, darling,” Hermann says, and means it. He pulls Newton closer against his side in emphasis.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh,” comes the reply, Newton’s grip tightening on his shoulder, thigh pressing down where it’s thrown over Hermann’s good leg. “Cool.” He smiles into Hermann’s chest, and Hermann hums in pleasure, and closes his eyes, and falls gently into sleep.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Only three more chapters and a wee little epilogue to go, so... nearly there, folks!</p>
<p>
  <em>Don't stop, no, I'll never give up / And I'll never look back, just <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AIjVpRAXK18">hold your head up</a>.</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. “I haven’t heard him play in so long. He's out of practice.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Advanced apologies to all, like. International criminal lawyers for the Strong Dramatic License in the next three chapters...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"><a></a>In the morning, Newton’s peel has extended to cover his shoulders and upper arms, and the skin is hot to the touch.</p><p class="p1">“Does it hurt?” Hermann asks, running a finger down what is almost starting to look like a fissure. It’s . . . worrying, and not just for the sake of the artwork.</p><p class="p1">“Just itchy,” says Newton, though it comes out more like <em>ust ecthee</em> through his mouthful of toothbrush and toothpaste.</p><p class="p1">Hermann thins his lips and bites back the question he truly wants to ask.</p><p class="p1">When they make it downstairs, Karla shoots them an incredibly knowing look over her tablet, and Hermann tries not to blush down to his toes. He wrangles with the coffee machine while Newton takes himself outside to commence his awful exercises; late today by design. Hermann had awoken to a soft, unblinking stare and a murmured, “We didn’t want you to wake alone. Not . . . after.” Which had prompted Hermann to show his gratitude in a delightfully physical way.</p><p class="p1">And now Karla, saying: “Little brother. You have a <em>love bite</em> on your neck.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann sniffs and aggressively quashes his desire to pull closed the collar of his robe. “I adamantly refuse to apologize for engaging in intimate behavior with my lawful spouse-to-be,” he says.</p><p class="p1">“Your ears are bright enough to be seen from space,” Karla quips in return. “Amateur astronomers all over Bavaria are calling to complain you’re interfering with their equipment.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann refuses to dignify this (outrageously scientifically inaccurate) comment with a response, and instead manages to make himself an actually passable cup of espresso without blowing up the machine. He makes one for Karla, too, because he is the Good Brother, then endures sitting with her as she openly ogles his fiancé’s arse as Newton contorts himself into pretzels on the lawn.</p><p class="p1">The rain has let up today and the sky is blue and blue and blue for miles. The air is crisp and fresh and damp, the sun hasn’t entirely lost its edge of warmth, and the Alps are spectacular as always. They have nothing in particular to do. They (or, more specifically, Newton) are not to leave the general area—and are almost certainly being watched—but otherwise may do as they wish. For Hermann, this involves traveling into town to purchase some of the things he neglected to bring during their flight from the Shatterdome. For Newton, it’s mainly a passionately burning desire to ascend to the summit of Wank, for entirely obvious (and extremely juvenile) reasons.</p><p class="p1">“I am not hiking up a mountain,” Hermann states, when Newton explains his desire. Quite aside from the physical aspect, like every child in the village, Hermann has been up there a million times already.</p><p class="p1">“Wankbahn, dude!” Newton exclaims, red-faced and upside down. He’s currently performing some extremely obnoxious exercise that seems to involve rolling from his back into a handstand, over and over. It looks . . . dizzying. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go grab lunch at Mukkefuck afterwards.”</p><p class="p1">“Yes, you and every other obnoxious American here in the off-season.” Apparently one of the things Newton had been doing on his ill-gotten tablet was researching local tourist attractions.</p><p class="p1">“Uh, yeah. Duh. We can pretend we don’t speak German and listen to all the things people say about us when they think we can’t understand them. Also, we are absolutely getting you in the jacuzzi later and we <em>know</em> you didn’t bring swim trunks so this is your last opportunity to buy some if you’re gonna be weird about being naked in your own house.”</p><p class="p1">Because, yes; Karla does, indeed, have an outdoor jacuzzi, and one with an exceptional view of the mountains at that. It did not exist the last time Hermann was here and, honestly, the evidence for his secret-Airbnb-side-hustle suspicion is mounting.</p><p class="p1">Jacob emerges around eleven, and after that it would be dreadfully rude not to invite him out to the city with them for brunch. They do end up at the Mukkefuck cafe, which Newton loudly insists on pronouncing the American way, despite absolutely knowing better. The food is . . . fine, but obviously for tourists, which Newton obnoxiously pretends that he is. Hermann, who is absolutely a fool and very definitely a fool in love, plays along, with Jacob stepping smoothly into the role of the expatriate father returning to “Ze Old Country” (as, again, Newton loudly insists on calling it) for the first time since childhood. It is all tremendously silly, and by the time they leave Hermann realizes he hasn’t thought about the war or the PPDC or their current tenuous legal situation the entire time.</p><p class="p1">There is a great deal that makes sense about Newt, Hermann thinks, observing Jacob. He feels humbled, walking beside the man, free hand laced with Newton’s, that he’s included in this easy, unconditional love, this joyful family.</p><p class="p1">They go shopping. They buy extra clothes and the toiletries they hadn’t packed. Hermann buys swim trunks he has no intention of using. Newton runs into a shoe store and comes out with a brand new pair of Doc Martens, then takes them all on a hunt to find somewhere he can stock up in his awful protein shakes.</p><p class="p1">“That boy!” Jacob exclaims, as he waits outside a shop that seems to entirely consist of enormous tubs of dubious powders and overly jacked young men with a chronic allergy to sleeves. “I cook for him but he would rather drink this rubbish!”</p><p class="p1">“I suppose it’s marginally better than his previous diet of Red Bull and crisps,” Hermann sighs. They’re not young men any more, after all.</p><p class="p1">A pause, suddenly heavy, then:</p><p class="p1">“I didn’t believe him, at first. When he told me. Why he was . . . gone, all those years.”</p><p class="p1">“Ah.” Hermann shifts his hands on the head of his cane. “Yes. I suppose it is not an . . . easy story. To accept.”</p><p class="p1">“But it’s true? Those . . . things got inside him. Made him hurt people, hurt <em>you</em>.”</p><p class="p1">“It’s . . . more complicated than that,” Hermann says, because an honest question deserves a serious answer. “But yes, in the broadest sense.”</p><p class="p1">“And it’s still . . . in him? Is he—”</p><p class="p1">“He isn’t dangerous,” Hermann says. “Not to us. I wouldn’t have brought him all this way if I’d believed that.”</p><p class="p1">And Jacob surprises him by saying: “I know. I wanted to know if he can be . . . fixed.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann sighs. What a question.</p><p class="p1">“I do not believe,” he says, slowly, “that had he been fully cognizant of its price, Newt would have chosen the route he did. But now that he is here, nor do I believe he would seek to go back. He told me that you could not ‘uncrack the eggs, only eat the fucking omelette’—”</p><p class="p1">Jacob snorts. “That’s my boy.”</p><p class="p1">“—and as long as he’s not a danger to himself or his loved ones or the Earth, I don’t think any good can come of forcing the issue. Particularly not chasing the ghost of a man who hasn’t existed for a decade.” The arrow of time points only one way, and the mistakes of the past cannot be undone. Only lived with, and learned from.</p><p class="p1">Silence for a moment, as they both watch Newton through the shopfront window, engaged in a highly animated conversation with a cluster of gym bros that tower over him in rapt and attentive fascination. Finally, Jacob says: “I miss him. I know that’s wrong, but . . .”</p><p class="p1">“I understand,” says Hermann, who does. Painfully so. “And I don’t think he would blame you for it. It’s . . . difficult for us, as humans, to separate the idea of the Precursors as a people from what we know of how they see us, see Earth. And existential dread on the one hand and alien rapaciousness on the other are not conducive emotions to building empathy. And yet, I believe Newt managed it, and did so by sacrificing something perhaps no one else on Earth would consent to giving up.” Hermann sighs, heart aching. For all of them. “And for all that,” he adds, “I believe Newton is now at peace with himself, and with his choice, in a way he was . . . not. Before.”</p><p class="p1">“A delicious omelette of a man,” Jacob says, and both the comment and the sad grin that accompanies it are painfully Newt-esque. “And now the rest of us just have to learn to eat it.”</p><hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>In the end, Hermann drops Newton and Jacob off at the Wankbahn, then takes their shopping and Karla’s car back to the house. This is the first time Newton has been truly alone with a civilian since his capture, and Hermann would be lying to say an edge of anxiety doesn’t creep in at the thought. Hermann is a man of calculated probabilities and he is certain the probability Newton will hurt Jacob is asymptotic. But asymptotic is not zero by definition, and there are so many things that can go wrong, hiking down a mountain for so many hours.</p><p class="p1">Still. Hermann <em>wants</em> to trust, and so does Jacob. They, too, are learning to be at peace with their choices.</p><p class="p1">Karla is in her office today, working, and so Hermann spends a rather lazy afternoon doing very little. He has roughly ten million messages from Tendo, ranging in tone from incredulous to baffled to sincerely worried, so Hermann sends a relatively curt but sincere reply: <em>Yes, Newton is with me. We have left the Corps and are currently negotiating our next steps with the authorities. Your concern is appreciated but we are both well and safe. </em></p><p class="p1">The ever-ominous <em>TenC is typing...</em> appears almost immediately in reply, then disappears, then reappears. Several times, in fact, until finally: <em>good luck, brother. hope you know what you’re doing</em></p><p class="p1">Hermann still does not, and wishes people would stop bothering him about it, but does not say as much.</p><p class="p1">For most of the rest of the afternoon, he sits out on the porch and reads. It is his first attempt at revisiting <em>Gläserne Bienen</em> as an adult and he is both disappointed yet unsurprised to find the book that captivated him so as a teen does not entirely hold up under adult scrutiny. Some of the themes seem almost suspiciously Romantic—in the formal, capital-R, ominously Volkstum sense of the word—on the one hand, while Hermann now finds the entire premise of Zapparoni’s paternalistic capitalism insidious and irredeemable, and Richard to be an obsequious, spineless patsy. Nonetheless, it engages him—even if only in outrage—enough he nearly misses the timer he set to prepare the jacuzzi and chill a bottle of Sekt.</p><p class="p1">The Geiszlers burst back into the house a little over four hours from when Hermann dropped them off, seemingly no worse for wear other than the way Jacob groans, “Remind me next time I am too old to be hiking down mountains,” loud enough Hermann hears it from his position outside.</p><p class="p1">“Got just the solution to that one,” Newton announces, and Hermann follows the sound of his footsteps as he bounds through the house, eventually spying Hermann and popping his head out the back door with a: “Yo, Hermibaba, we’re gonna—”</p><p class="p1">“The jacuzzi is heated and ready and there is a bottle of Sekt in the fridge. Bring it and four glasses, three if you’re not drinking; I suspect Karla will join us shortly.”</p><p class="p1">Newton’s expression is rapturous, and Hermann suddenly finds himself with a (careful) lapful of sweaty, dirt-smeared fiancé, who’s throwing him into a crushing embrace with a, “Best! Fiancé! Ever!” Then: “Wait. Are you naked under that robe?”</p><p class="p1">Hermann gives him a raised eyebrow over his glasses. “This is Germany, darling,” he says, and Newton throws back his head and laughs in unrepentant joy.</p><hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>They do end up in the jacuzzi, all four of them. Newton finds a portable music player in the house which, after some bickering over the choices (the Mountain Goats/<em>Space Jam</em> mashup is just . . . a hard no, regardless of how gleefully it makes Newton gyrate), end up on a tolerable mix of electro swing and broken beat played at a tolerable volume.</p><p class="p1">So Hermann sits in the warm, churning water with his glass of sparkling wine in one hand and his lunatic criminal fiancé in the other, making inconsequential small talk with his family. And the sun sets, and Hermann lies back, and tilts his head to the sky, and watches the stars come out, one by one.</p><hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>The lawyer appears on Thursday. Her name is Hannah Kreuzer, and to Hermann’s eye she looks all of twelve, though is more likely in her early thirties; young and fashionably cheerful, but with a shrewd hardness in her gaze. A contact of Karla’s, so Hermann knows not to underestimate her.</p><p class="p1">“As you’re probably aware, we’re up against some fairly significant challenges,” she tells them. “The US has filed for extradition and is seeking prosecution by military tribunal against Doctor Geiszler; they have the backing of the Australians and the Japanese to do so.”</p><p class="p1">“On what charges?” Hermann asks.</p><p class="p1">“Broadly? Terrorism and murder.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann’s heart skips. He knew, of course he knew. He’s not an idiot. But hearing it stated so plainly . . .</p><p class="p1">“The full list of charges is extensive,” Kreuzer says. “Realistically, I suspect it’s designed to intimidate Doctor Geiszler and get him to accept a plea deal.”</p><p class="p1">“They want to Paperclip him.”</p><p class="p1">Kreuzer inclines her head. “I’d suggest that would be likely, yes. If you’ll forgive me for saying so, it may be an option worth considering. We can negotiate conditions, of course, but—”</p><p class="p1">“No.” Newton voice is hard, final. “What’s our second option?”</p><p class="p1">“The argument the Americans are making,” Kreuzer says, barely even blinking, “hinges on classing Doctor Geiszler as an unlawful enemy combatant; it allows them to bypass the civilian courts. Our option is to prove otherwise. Under the Geneva Conventions— the exact wording is a ‘competent tribunal’, and the German government has indicated it’s prepared to facilitate such a body. Such a tribunal would be called to determine whether Doctor Geiszler met the conditions for operation as a privileged combatant under the laws of war. There are hurdles, primarily being that the Anteverse does not recognize Earth’s laws. But Earth does—and more importantly the UN does, and thus the PPDC does—and I believe we could make a compelling argument that they should still be upheld, even in such extraordinary circumstances.”</p><p class="p1">“And what would it mean?” Hermann asks. “This . . . tribunal?”</p><p class="p1">“If the tribunal determines Doctor Geiszler was not acting as a privileged combatant, we’re back to where we are currently, only slightly worse. Even if the Americans give up their claim, you’d still be open to civilian and criminal prosecution, either here or elsewhere. In that eventuality, it is extremely likely Shao Industries will pursue a damages claim.”</p><p class="p1">“They’ll sue him?”</p><p class="p1">“Shao’s valuation has plummeted to near zero since Tokyo. The company’s entire technology stack is considered suspect, no one will touch anything they produce, investors have lost billions, and the Chinese government is inches from forcing a break-up. They’re out for blood.”</p><p class="p1">Newton just snorts. “And the alternative?”</p><p class="p1">“If you’re found to be a privileged combatant, then it’s war crimes, and the PPDC will take you to the Hague.”</p><p class="p1">“So this is an exercise in choosing our poison,” Newton says.</p><p class="p1">“You’ve already stated you don’t deny your actions,” is Kreuzer’s explanation. “All that’s left is to determine what that means, exactly. Whose justice you’ll have to face.”</p><p class="p1">“And what of Newton’s justice?” Hermann snaps. “He was tortured!”</p><p class="p1">“And without evidence, it’s his word against the PPDC’s.”</p><p class="p1">“We have witnesses! Rangers Lambert and Pentecost—”</p><p class="p1">“Will be the PPDC’s witnesses,” Kreuzer says. “We can’t necessarily rely that their testimony will be . . . amenable. To us.”</p><p class="p1">“Hm,” says Newton. Then stands, and walks from the room.</p><p class="p1">“I—”</p><p class="p1">“He’ll be back,” Hermann says, to try and allay Kreuzer’s obvious surprise. “He can . . . forget, sometimes.” Forget to explain his actions, forget social niceties, forget why they matter. It is, honestly, one of his more obviously Newt-like traits.</p><p class="p1">Newton is, indeed, back rather quickly. Holding his Walkman, of all things. He sits back down, and offers one earbud to Kreuzer, and one to Hermann. They have to lean awkwardly close together to make it work, but when they do, and Newton presses play . . .</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“—think this is fun for me? You think I like chronic migraines and bleeding out my fucking eye every other week to try and help you ungrateful fucks? Fuck you. I’ll work on your fucking bioweapons so you don’t fucking shoot me and I’ll do whatever the fuck else Herms wants because I owe him, but I am so—”</em>
</p><p class="p1">The tape clicks off. The sound quality is terrible—almost as if it had been recorded by someone who’d quickly hacked a pair of headphones to function as a microphone, also—but the voice is very obviously Newt’s.</p><p class="p1">Kreuzer lowers her headphones, eyebrows raised.</p><p class="p1">“There’s more,” Newton says.</p><p class="p1">“You . . . recorded these? What are they? Who was present?”</p><p class="p1">“We had project status meetings,” Hermann says slowly. “Newton, Marshal Stone, Liwen Shao, Rangers Lambert and Pentecost, and myself were in attendance.”</p><p class="p1">“You said— What ‘bioweapons’?”</p><p class="p1">“Stone had Newton working on a biological agent that could be deployed offensively against the Anteverse.”</p><p class="p1">“A virus, basically,” Newton adds.</p><p class="p1">“And you believed they would . . . execute you? If you didn’t comply.”</p><p class="p1">Newton shrugs. “Stone made it pretty clear he was only keeping us around as long as we were useful.”</p><p class="p1">“They’d been in the process of declaring Newton legally dead,” Hermann says. “They told me he <em>was</em>, at first, and sent me on sabbatical. At the time, it’d been presented as an opportunity to . . . grieve. I now believe it was simply to get me out of the Shatterdome.”</p><p class="p1">“Stone wouldn’t tell Dad what’d happened to us,” Newton adds. “Only found that out from Herms, later; didn’t want to ask about it at the time, ‘cause we didn’t want him to try and use Dad against us.”</p><p class="p1">“You believed the PPDC would hurt your father to get you to cooperate?”</p><p class="p1">Another shrug. “Figured Stone might try it, after the first couple of waterboardings went nowhere. Didn’t want to risk it.”</p><p class="p1">“I only found out by accident,” Hermann says. “I put a stop to Newton’s . . . declaration of demise when it was brought to me. Newton grew very distressed for reasons I didn’t at the time understand. When I dug further, I realized when the PPDC—when I—had frozen his financial assets, it had also cut off the stipend he was paying to support Jacob. Being declared dead would see the estate distributed; Jacob would’ve been the main beneficiary. I surmised Newton did not wish Marshal Stone to know he still cared about his father, and made . . . discreet arrangements to move Jacob into a less vulnerable living situation.”</p><p class="p1">“You also believed the PPDC would harm Doctor Geiszler’s family?”</p><p class="p1">Hermann inhales, closing his next words with care. “Not the PPDC per se, no. Marshal Stone? Perhaps. Financially or emotionally, if not physically. People can justify many things to themselves, when they feel the alternative is the fate of the entire world.”</p><p class="p1">Kreuzer seems to think of this, eyes closed as she formulates her next question. When it comes, it is pointed and careful. “Doctor Geiszler. Would you say your cooperation with the PPDC during your detention was extracted under duress? To put it another way: were you forced to work for them?”</p><p class="p1">“Not all the time,” Newton says. “We helped Hermann by choice—”</p><p class="p1">“Newton believed he was going to die,” Hermann interjects. “And that assisting me was the only opportunity he would get to . . . make amends.”</p><p class="p1">“Some things were just curiosity,” Newton continues. “Shao sent a linguist, to try and translate the Flesh’s written language. She was fun. And the neurology stuff was cool when they stopped drugging us and doing it without telling us about it.”</p><p class="p1">“The PPDC subjected you to medical procedures without your consent?”</p><p class="p1">“Yeah. The doc they had was kinda an idiot; she had this grudge against us from this shit that had happened years ago. Uh, and also Tokyo. But Herms made her stop knocking us out, and we made up and we’re like brain besties now.”</p><p class="p1">“I . . . see,” says Kreuzer, eyes getting wider by the word.</p><p class="p1">“So that was all fun,” Newton continues. “We were okay with that stuff. And Stone had Hermann trying to work on a way of sending Jaeger through the Breach, so we tried to help, because it was Herms, though it was a stupid fucking plan that was gonna murder a bunch of kids for no reason.”</p><p class="p1">“I . . . what?”</p><p class="p1">Hermann sighs. “The PPDC has recently become very attached to the idea of launching a counteroffensive directly against the Anteverse. With his knowledge of their capabilities, Newton did not believe it could succeed—that it would simply get our Rangers killed—and frequently said so.”</p><p class="p1">“So, like. That’s kinda the <em>other</em> reason we worked on the bioweapon stuff. Don’t need to get Rangers killed for that.”</p><p class="p1">“You mentioned children . . .?”</p><p class="p1">“I’m sure you’re aware the nature of the Jaeger has always made recruiting compatible pilots . . . difficult,” Hermann says. “And after the attacks . . . Most of our current prospects are cadets still. Minors.”</p><p class="p1">“Also Amara is, like, fifteen,” Newton says. “And Stone made her a full Ranger.”</p><p class="p1">“She had seen combat—”</p><p class="p1">Except Kreuzer blurts: “The PPDC is using <em>children</em> in active combat?”</p><p class="p1">“Ah . . .” Hermann winces. It does actually sound rather . . . not fantastic. Said by a civilian. Lawyer.</p><p class="p1">“I’m sorry,” Kreuzer says. “I just need to . . . you’re alleging that the PPDC detained Doctor Geiszler without trial, tortured him, made him fear for the life of his family if he didn’t cooperate, forced him to work on developing biological weapons, <em>and</em> is currently intending to use children to launch a military attack all current evidence suggests will not succeed? And you have this all on tape?”</p><p class="p1">Newton tilts his head. “Yeah,” he says. “Does any of that make a difference?”</p><p class="p1">Kreuzer swallows. “I . . . would like copies of these tapes,” she says. “If that can be arranged.”</p><p class="p1">Newton just gives her his sharpest, hardest, most gormless grin.</p><hr/><p class="p1"><a></a>Once Kreuzer has left, Hermann excuses himself to the bathroom. Whereupon he promptly takes a piss, and washes his hands. Then grips onto the edge of the basin, white-knuckled, trying to get his heart and his breathing under control.</p><p class="p1">Hermann is not, he reminds himself, actually stupid. <em>Newton</em> does not, he’s fairly certain, believe he is actually stupid. Newton knew he would figure this out; would realize the game. He is not trying to hide it. Now that Hermann knows what he should’ve been looking for, Newton <em>never</em> tried to hide it; even outright told Hermann what he was doing. He had been planning this, if not from the start, then fairly close to it.</p><p class="p1"><em>He isn’t dangerous,</em> Hermann had told Jacob, had told Karla. <em>Not to us.</em> Because Hermann is a man who prizes integrity, prizes honesty, above all things. And he does not lie; he truly believes Newton is not dangerous. To them.</p><p class="p1">But to Stone? To the people who hurt him? Hermann believes Newton plans to destroy them, one and all. Because Newton is a viciously political animal, one that has spent a decade learning how to get <em>exactly</em> what it wants. How to give people exactly what <em>they</em> think they want, to feed out that tantalizing rope . . . and laugh as his victims hang on the noose of it.</p><p class="p1">Hermann’s hand goes to his throat; feels the ghost of fingers closing carotid arteries, crushing the fragile walls of his trachea. He is not so foolish to feel himself immune to the monster’s charms, then or now. Newton has never hidden his desire, nor his pleasure when Hermann has succumbed to it. <em>Operant conditioning,</em> Stone had said, and Hermann had had the audacity to think he’d been the one dealing the cards.</p><p class="p1">Hermann stares at himself in the mirror; still gaunt, still pale. But there’s a . . . contentment in his expression he is not used to seeing. Despite everything, these last few days have been <em>good</em>, and Hermann does not believe them a lie. <em>We’d put you in a kaiju-chitin bikini and keep you as our sexy human concubine</em>, Newton had said. And he’d been so careful, with Kreuzer, to nudge the fault towards Stone, not the PPDC. Ever cognizant of how much the latter means to Hermann, how lost Hermann would be if he could never return. <em>We’ll help the Corps in their war,</em> he’d said. <em>I’ll do whatever the fuck else Herms wants because I owe him,</em> Newt had shrieked, with no more or less honesty.</p><p class="p1">Because, perhaps, that’s the most terrifying thing of all. This, <em>all</em> of this—their exile, the trial, the evidence against Stone—is what Hermann had said he wanted. And what Newton had, in turn, made so.</p><p class="p1">Hermann exhales, slowly. Maybe, he thinks, things ever would be thus. Who, after all, does not try and manipulate events to suit their own ends? The fact most people are so sodding piss poor at it is hardly a fault of Newton’s.</p><p class="p1">Hermann exists the bathroom, goes looking for his fiancé. Finds him at the piano, working his way through the sheet music left open on the stand. Not unproblematically; it’s obvious he hasn’t played in a long time, fingers hesitating over the keys, hitting the wrong notes, backtracking and correcting. But Hermann can nonetheless hear the song taking shape beneath; a rolling sort of gallop, an urgent heartbeat.</p><p class="p1">And as he plays, Newton is chanting. A nonsense phrase, near as Hermann can tell, repeated, over and over:</p><p class="p1">“‘I was in this pre—‘ fuck. ‘This prematurely air- air-conditioned supermarket and there were all these ai-aisles. And there were these bath— were these bathing caps that you could buy that had these ki-kind of Fourth-of-July plumes on them that were red and— red and yellow and blue. And I wasn't tempted to buy one, but I was reminded— was reminded of the fact that I had been avoiding the beach. I was in this prematurely air— prematurely air conditioned supermarket . . .’”</p><p class="p1">It is . . . bizarre. Haunting. Hermann has no idea what to make of it, even as his heart races. Something about the repetition, the thrumming of the piano, the endless banality of Newton’s words, ever so slowly speeding up, getting somehow more urgent with each round. Until Hermann’s heart is hammering and his breath is coming short and his hands clench around the head of his cane and—</p><p class="p1">“<em>Einstein on the Beach</em>.”</p><p class="p1">The voice makes Hermann jump and, as he does, a warm hand steadies his elbow. When he looks down, Jacob is smiling up at him, somehow both knowing and sad.</p><p class="p1">“E-excuse me?”</p><p class="p1">“It’s an opera,” Jacob explains, not quite whispering, but obviously not wanting to disturb his son. “Illia’s favorite. Philip Glass, very modern; incredible, to see it live. We all used to listen to it, over and over, when he was little.” He nods towards Newton. “‘Trial/Prison’, act three, scene one.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann’s heart clenches. “Oh,” he says.</p><p class="p1">“I haven’t heard him play in so long.” Jacob’s eyes close in pure, undisguised joy. “He’s out of practice.”</p><p class="p1">Hermann is suddenly, intensely reminded of every time he ever yelled at Newton for playing his keyboards in the lab. “We—” he starts and, Lord. He can’t speak. Something about the music, about the urgent, ordered chaos of the endless roil of notes. Like his throat is closing up . . .</p><p class="p1">“Come on,” Jacob says, kindly guiding Hermann forward. “He won’t mind if we listen.”</p><p class="p1">It’s <em>hard</em>, Hermann realizes. To bring himself closer to the source of that sound. So alien and urgent and strange and beautiful and Newton glances their way when they move more fully into the room, smiles at them both with only the slightest tripping in his playing, in his strange chanting.</p><p class="p1">And Herman sits next to Jacob on Karla’s big leather lounge, eyes closing, letting the strange hypnosis of the music wash over him.</p><p class="p1"><em>This is how it gets what it wants,</em> Shao had said, and she had not been wrong.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Countdown to all the Jünger fans being mad at Hermann's Hot Literature Takes in five, four..</p><p>
  <em>So when you met the new you / Were you scared, were you cold, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LWGJA9i18Co">were you kind</a>?</em>
</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Verbatim Transcript of Combatant Status Review Tribunal Hearing [Declassified Excerpts]</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <em>I was in this prematurely <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IeR9l1sxHLQ">air-conditioned supermarket</a>...</em>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="article-text"><a></a>PRESIDENT: This Tribunal will determine whether Newton Geiszler meets the criteria to he designated as a lawful enemy combatant against the Pan Pacific Defense Corps and its member nations, or otherwise meets the criteria to be designated as a lawful enemy combatant.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: The members of this Tribunal shall now be sworn. All rise.</p><p class="article-text">RECORDER: Do you swear or affirm that you will faithfully perform your duties as a member of this Tribunal; that you will impartially examine and inquire into the matter now before you according to your conscience and the laws and regulations provided; that you will make such findings of fact and conclusions as are supported by the evidence presented; that in determining, those facts, you will use your professional knowledge, best judgments and common sense; and that you will make such findings as are appropriate according to the best of your understanding of the rules, regulations, and laws governing this proceeding, and guided by your concept of justice, so help you God?</p><p class="article-text">MEMBERS: I do.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: The Recorder will now administer the oath to the Personal Representative.</p><p class="article-text">RECORDER: Do you swear or affirm that you will faithfully perform the duties of Personal Representative in this Tribunal, so help you God?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REPRESENTATIVE: I do.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Please be seated.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Newton Geiszler, you are hereby advised the following applies during this hearing. You may be present at all open sessions of the Tribunal; however, if you become disorderly, you will be removed from the hearing, and the Tribunal will continue to hear evidence in your absence. You may not be compelled to testify at this Tribunal; however, you may testify if you wish to do so. Your testimony can be under oath or unsworn. You may have the assistance of a Personal Representative at the hearing. Your assigned Personal Representative is present. You may present evidence to this Tribunal, including the testimony of witnesses who are reasonably available and whose testimony is relevant to this hearing. You may question witnesses testifying at the Tribunal. You may examine documents or statements offered into evidence other than classified information. However, certain documents may be partially masked for security reasons. Newton Geiszler, do you understand this process?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We do.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Thank you. Do you have any questions concerning this Tribunal process?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We do not.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>MEMBER #1: Doctor Geiszler, can you explain the command structure of the Anteverse Precursors for the benefit of the Tribunal Members?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: No.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: Excuse me? [no response given] You are aware answering these questions is for your own benefit, Doctor?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: And when you ask us a question we can answer, we’ll answer it.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>PRESIDENT: You stated before you could not describe the Precursor’s command structure. Can you tell us why that is?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We don’t have one.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: You’re asserting you acted of your own free will for the actions in Sydney and Tokyo, and the attacks on the Shatterdomes?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: No.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: You might have to elaborate for the benefit of the Tribunal Members.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Do your pericytes “command” your osteoclasts?</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: If I knew what either of those were, I might be able to give you an answer. [NOTE: Cells in the human body.]</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Cells of the Flesh [NOTE: Appears to be the term the Precursors use to refer to themselves.] are cells of the Flesh. There is no “command,” only purpose.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: And what is the “purpose” of the Precursors?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: The Harvest.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Could you elaborate?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Worlds are grown for Harvest. They are Harvested. The Flesh endures.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: “Worlds” like Earth?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Yes.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: So no single command structure exists as a human would understand it?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Correct.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: How do you resolve conflicts? Differences of opinion?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: There are none.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Ever?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: If a portion of the Flesh is . . . separated, for too long, it may become cancerous. Cancer is excised.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: What does that mean? To be “cancerous”?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: To lose purpose.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Doctor Geiszler, you’re not doing yourself any favors here . . .</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: With respect, Madam President, I believe Doctor Geiszler finds it difficult to articulate these concepts in human language in a way humans find comprehensible. I would ask esteemed Members to remember the unique circumstances of this tribunal, and to be patient.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Thank you, counsel. Duly noted. And in that vein, I’m calling a five minute recess.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>PRESIDENT: Doctor Geiszler, do you require medical attention?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Nah, we’re good. Bleed out of this baby like every other week. Probably won’t kill me.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Very well. Continue.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: Doctor, can you please explain the long-term effects of human-kaiju Drifting on human neurology?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: You know, kinda no? It’s never really been studied. Also, like, no offense but you guys gotta stop asking me the wrong fuc— Uh. The wrong questions all the damn time. It’s giving me a killer migraine. So, like. To answer the question you want to ask, no-one can tell what the effects of an actual human-kaiju Drift are because at the moment no-one knows how to separate out those data from the massive neural clusterfuck that is a human-Precursor Drift.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: So that’s the question you actually wanna ask, and the teal deer [NOTE: Reference to the acronym for “too long; didn’t read”] version is that, near as I can tell, it overwrites human brain function with a more Precursor-approved variant.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: It . . . makes a human think like a Precursor?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Not just think. The Precursors have . . . a kinda collective, quote-unquote “ancestral” memory thing? I guess? Like, you’ve probably gathered they don’t have individual identities. Everything any one experiences is constantly being passed on to anyone else in the vicinity; their “language,” near as they have one, is, like, constant electrochemical signals. It’d probably really fuck a human up to stand near, actually. Like, biologically. Should note that for your little suicide mission, [MEMBER #1].</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Doctor Geiszler . . .</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Sorry, sorry. Right, uh. Where was I? Uh, right. So basically the Pres are kind of . . . one entity, almost? Operating in multiple bodies. Near as I can tell they don’t really . . . get existing in any other way; the idea’s too alien to them, and they’re not really great at grasping new concepts, though it’s hard to tell whether that’s a physiological limitation or a, for want of a better word, cultural one or—</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Doctor Geiszler, while I’m sure the world scientific community would appreciate this information at a later date, for the purpose of this Tribunal, please try and stay on track.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Uh. Right. Sorry.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Uh . . . what track was that again?</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: The effects of the Drift.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Right! Right, yeah. Okay. Basically: uninstall Human OS, install Precursor OS with bonus Anteversipedia.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: What period of time are we talking about here? To achieve this?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Uh . . . more data needed? I mean I’m the only test case on this one and, well. That’s ten years of, uh. Pretty frequent Drifting, and my brain is still trying to heal out of it.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: The effects fade?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Sure, it’s just like any other Drift; some things stay, some things don’t. I mean, like. I’m never gonna go back to human “normal”; this is as close as I get to that and this is, like, the equivalent of a serious mental health episode for me. Like I am not kidding this is super not healthy and I’m gonna need a time out soon before I pass out and-or start bleeding from my other eye. So there’s that. But, also? Totally reconsidered the whole “destroying the Earth” thing now that I’ve had some me-time and definitely not on board with that plan any more in any capacity. So, like. The glass is both half-full and half-empty, all at once, I guess?</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>GEISZLER: Kinda hoping this whole process isn’t gonna be like this, y’know? Not the Drift the kills us, not the PPDC, not the waterboarding; it’s the mental whiplash from our own freakin’ secret tribunal.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: We’re all doing our best, Doctor. Given the circumstances.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [hand waved in acceptance/dismissal]</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: [MEMBER #2], you had a follow-up question?</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: Thank you, Madam President. Doctor Geiszler, in light of your previous testimony, can you explain to us how you were able to “reconsider” your participation in the Anteverse’s war goals?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Like, they locked us in a box for three months and took Alice away. That helped.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: “Alice” is the, uh. The kaiju brain—</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We kept in our apartment to Drift with when the cognitive dissonance of trying to run Flesh-thoughts on human meat got too much? Yeah.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: Can you explain “Alice’s” role?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Mechanically? Basically zapped the whole mental balance equation far enough back onto the Precursor side that we stopped having “his” gross feelings about it.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: “His” who?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: The meat.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: I believe Doctor Geiszler is referring to his . . . pre-Drift personality.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Sure.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: I see. When you say, uh. “He” had feelings about what you were doing . . .?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: You think the schlubby little nerdlinger who spent the quote-unquote “prime” of his sad fucking life working for free in a miserable concrete-and-steel bunker to try and save the world from the Anteverse is suddenly gonna be all like, “You know what? Flattening the planet into chemical slime really is a great idea. Let’s get right on that.”</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: So you— or, “he” did not approve of the sabotage of Shao Industries?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Oh, no. He fucked loathed Shao; the person and the company. They were the greedy capitalist warmongers that didn’t give a shit how obviously laughably evil we were being so long as we made them money. You think we would’ve been able to get even a fraction as far as we did at the PPDC? Like if we just rocked up to Herms [Dr. Hermann Gottlieb, PhD, fmr. Director K-Science, PPDC] one day like, “Hey, babe. Totally got a brand new autonomous Conn-Pod for you. Just dump it right in there and never ever look inside or ask how it works or where it came from or why it’s roughly the size of a freakin’ kaiju brain.” Like, you’re kidding us, right? He’d freakin’ skin us alive for even suggesting it. Then invite Tendo [Choi, fmr. J-Tech Operations Chief, PPDC] around to rub salt into our screaming meat. Then they’d open the damn thing up, and then we’d really be fucked.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: But at the ol’ SI it’s, like. “Hey, dipass, you wanna ask questions or you wanna make a trillion dollars?” Lotta questions a trillion dollars makes go away, y’know?</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>PERSONAL REP.: Ranger Lambert, you were the one to turn Doctor Geiszler over to PPDC custody, is that correct?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Um. Yes, ma’am.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Can you explain how you did that?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Uh, I . . . uh—</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: He punched us in the face and we blacked out. But we’re cool now. [gave Ranger Lambert “thumbs up” signs]</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Um. Yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Alright. After that, what happened?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Things were kind of a mess, y’know? I zip-tied him and left him with some of the SI people; they said they’d get him back to the PPDC.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you see Doctor Geiszler after that?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Not until, uh. August? We, me and Jake [Ranger Jacob Pentecost], knew he was being kept on base but there were a bunch of other guys doing all the, y’know. Work.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What “work”?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Interrogating him, I guess? Trying to . . . I mean. He was obviously crazy fucked up. Uh, ‘scuse my language. Doctor Gottlieb was convinced he was, like. Possessed or something.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Where was Doctor Gottlieb during this time?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: He got shunted off after Tokyo. Um, mandatory stress leave, y’know how it is. I know he went with the raid on Geiszler’s apartment and I think all that stuff messed him up pretty bad.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Were you aware that Doctor Gottlieb had been told Doctor Geiszler had been shot, trying to escape custody?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Um. Not at first. But eventually, yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: When did you become aware of this information, Ranger Lambert?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Maybe . . . a month? After Tokyo? Something like that. Jake told me.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How did learning that information make you feel?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Uh, well . . . Jake was pretty convinced it was for the best? Doc had been getting, uh. Intense. About everything. He was obviously taking it hard, blaming himself for stuff, y’know. Dude obviously needed a break.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: I asked how it made you feel, Ranger Lambert. Not how Ranger Pentecost or Doctor Gottlieb were feeling.</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: I . . . Look, I thought it was kinda shady, okay? Yeah. We basically just disappeared a dude. That’s fucked up, no matter what he did.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What was your justification for detaining Doctor Geiszler in the first place?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Um . . . He’d decimated the PPDC and summoned kaiju into Tokyo? And tried to strangle Doctor Gottlieb? Dude was kind of on a whole thing, y’know?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Was there a warrant issued for Doctor Geiszler’s arrest?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Um. No.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Was there ever any attempt to gain a warrant?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Not to my knowledge.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Were there any attempts to notify Doctor Geiszler’s next-of-kin where he was or to obtain legal counsel on his behalf?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Look, um. Ma’am. With all due respect, I’m probably not the person you wanna be asking this stuff . . .</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Please answer the question, Ranger Lambert.</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Not to my knowledge on either then, ma’am.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Were you aware if Doctor Geiszler was ever charged with an actual crime, defined here as a provable criminal offense under a formal legal statute and, I will note, “summoning kaiju” is not, in fact, actually a defined crime in any Earthly jurisdiction.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Oh well it’s definitely going to be now you’ve mentioned it, and where’s the fun in that?</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Doctor Geiszler, if we could keep the comments from the peanut gallery to a minimum, yes? Also, you’ve been warned before about putting your boots on the desk . . .</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [removed feet from desk]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Ranger Lambert?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Uh, right. Um. What was the question, sorry?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Were you aware if Doctor Geiszler was ever charged with an actual crime?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Not to my knowledge.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: In your opinion, was Doctor Geiszler given any form of due process at all during his detention at the PPDC?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Honestly? Not really, no.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: You were military, before you were Corps, is that correct?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Yes ma’am.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you receive training on the appropriate identification and treatment of prisoners of war during your service?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Basic, but yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: In your opinion, was the PPDC detaining Doctor Geiszler in a civilian or military capacity?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Uh. I, um. I thought that’s what those guys were here to decide? [gestured to the Tribunal Members]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: I’ll rephrase: In your opinion, was the perception at the Shatterdome that Doctor Geiszler was a prisoner of war?</p><p class="article-text">LAMBERT: Um. I guess people didn’t think much about it, at first? But after Doc got back . . . yeah, definitely.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: No further questions.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>PERSONAL REP.: Did you see Doctor Geiszler during the initial three months of his detention?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: Once, yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Can you explain to the Tribunal Members the circumstances of that interaction?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: Was just after they brought him in. Wanted to see the asshole who murdered my sister. Looked. Left.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Doctor Geiszler speak during that encounter?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: Yeah. Used his last words to talk a bit of smack, you know how it is.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What do you mean by “his last words”?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: Stopped talking after and only started up again after Doc got back. Then the problem was getting him to shut the fuck up.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Ranger Pentecost, please.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: He’s right, though.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Doctor Geiszler. If you disrupt these proceedings one more time I will have you removed.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [mimed zipping lips]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How would you describe Doctor Geiszler’s physical state, when you saw him.</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: Creepy.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Can you elaborate?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: You’ve seen him, yeah? Bastard just. Does. Not. Blink.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [gave exaggerated blink]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: In your opinion, did Doctor Geiszler seem to be in good health during his detention?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: What am I, a doctor?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Please answer the question, Ranger Pentecost.</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: [inaudible] Fine. No, alright? He would sit on his cell, not moving, not blinking, not doing shit. He would get one meal a day and he’d eat it, and he’d drink water, and piss and shit, and pass out after he’d been awake for a couple of days at a time. After ‘bout a month, he started fighting back when they came to take him to interrogation. Got a rep as a biter, and smacked around a few times for it, too.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: That sounds like more information that you could’ve gained from just one visit.</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: It’s a Shatterdome. People talk.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: So it was common knowledge around the Shatterdome that Doctor Geiszler was not being treated well?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: I never said that.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How would you describe it, then?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: Bastard was a crazy genocidal motherfucker who fried his brain Drifting with kaiju. How were we supposed to expect him to act?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did Doctor Geiszler’s behavior change once Doctor Gottlieb returned?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: Yeah. Yeah, it did.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: You’re in charge of training cadets, is that correct?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: With Nate [Ranger Nathan Lambert], yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Were you aware that your cadets were having regular unsupervised interactions with Doctor Geiszler?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: We watched them. They didn’t always know we were watching them, but we were careful.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you ever see anything that concerned you?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: You mean, aside from the crazy genocidal murderer?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Was Doctor Geiszler’s behavior ever inappropriate towards the cadets? Threatening? Subversive?</p><p class="article-text">PENTECOST: He’s a freak; half the things he says are ominous threatening Anteverse shit. But he mostly just ran a study group. Bio, Chemistry. Music. Sometimes he’d get Gottlieb to help with Maths and Physics. It’s hard, y’know? For the cadets, with school and with training. Figured there wasn’t too much evil you could get up to with high school-level shit; that it was keeping them all out of trouble. And, yeah. [REDACTED] and [REDACTED] went from flunking out to, y’know. Not. So at least something good was coming out this whole fucking mess.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>PERSONAL REP.: Can you describe for the Tribunal Members why you initially sought out Doctor Geiszler during his detention?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Um. Well, me and Vik [Cadet Viktoriya Malikova] were, like. Just in the hall one day when he and Doctor G, uh. Doctor Gottlieb walked past. We’d never seen him, like. Just walking around before? And, like. Talking? It was kind of . . . I dunno. So we, um. We followed them.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did Doctors Geiszler and Gottlieb know you were following them?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Um. Look. We were totally eavesdropping, okay? I know it’s, like. Not cool. But they were talking about us! Well, about [REDACTED], and that affects us! We had a right to know! Especially because Doctor Geiszler was saying that [REDACTED].</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: And you wanted to know more?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: No-one ever tells us anything! It’s always just . . . train hard this, do your studies that, everything will be fine. Except it never is. We’re not stupid; we know Rangers don’t . . . y’know. Live long. And we’re— we’re okay with that. It’s us or the whole world. But we’re not— not cannon fodder, either! We’re not here to go on someone else’s dumb suicide mission. We figured that, like. Even if Doctor Geiszler was super evil or whatever at lest he’d, like, want to try and gloat and demoralize us! And then we’d at least know something.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: So you went to see him?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Unsupervised.</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Uh. I snuck in, kinda? Early, when no-one was there. Like, before Doctor Gottlieb got back there were always guards in the cell but I think he p— uh, annoyed them and they, like. Stopped coming to . . . I don’t know? Prove some kind of point? So it wasn’t hard. [gasping, inaudible]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: [WITNESS A]?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [raised hand]</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Yes, Doctor?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: She walked in on us doing yoga. Naked. So she’s just realized she’s accidentally made a dick joke in a high-profile international military hearing.</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: I didn’t mean to! And it’s really hard to tell if you’re wearing clothes or not! With all the— [gestured at Doctor Geiszler]</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Americans, right? No sense of Freikörperkultur. [laughter in the room] [NOTE: “Free Body Culture,” German naturist movement.]</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Oh, uh. Oh dear. Well. Please continue.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Ah, ahem. Yes. Hm. [WITNESS A], can you describe what you spoke about with Doctor Geiszler?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Um. Y-yeah. Um. We talked about, like. [REDACTED], I guess? He told me why he didn’t think it would work, and why we’d all just. Y’know. Die.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you believe him?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: I mean, we figured he’d have a pretty good reason to get us not to [REDACTED], if he was still working for the Anteverse. But . . . even still. That didn’t mean it had to be a lie, maybe?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you discuss anything else?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Some stuff. I asked why he was, like, helping us and he wouldn’t tell me. The we talked about his graffiti, and he translated some.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Let the record show the reference to Exhibit K, photographs of the walls of Doctor Geiszler’s cell covered in what is believed to be the Precursors’ written language.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: [WITNESS A], whose idea was the study group?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Um, that was [REDACTED]. We were kind of . . . Like. We had this idea, right? Like. Before Doctor Gottlieb got back everyone was all, like, getting bitten all over the place and Doctor Geiszler wasn’t saying anything and being like super creepy or whatever. And then after, everyone was, like, “Oh, well he only talks to Doctor G” because, I dunno, they were Drift partners in the War or, like, science boyfriends or something? Or he was trying to convert him to his evil cause? The story kind of changed a lot? But he talked to me, too, and when I asked why he said it was because I was PPDC. So we figured . . . okay, well. He still seems to, like. Like us, or whatever? And maybe if he did, um . . . [inaudible]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: You’ll have to speak up.</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Sorry. It just . . . it sounds kinda, y’know. Dumb. To say it.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: I’m sure it’s nothing of the sort, sweetheart. But take your time.</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Okay. Okay, so . . . We thought if we were nice to him, and he liked us, then . . . then he’d tell the other Precursors not to attack us any more? Or at least, like. Be on our side?</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: I think that’s a tremendously kind-hearted thing to try.</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Oh. Um. Well . . . [REDACTED] said he used to, like, be a college professor? Before the War? So we figured we could, like. Bring him coffee and ask for, y’know. Homework help. So he’d get to know us better.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: And did that work?</p><p class="article-text">WITNESS A: Um. We were kinda expecting he’d just, y’know. Brush us off? Just dumb kids or whatever. But he didn’t. And it was pretty cool, actually? Classes got way easier. And he always had time for us. Even . . . even near the end, when he was always super busy and everyone was mad and yelling about [REDACTED] all the time. Him and Doctor G were always cool, y’know? Like. For old people.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [raised hand]</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Yes, Doctor?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Madam President we’d like to request a recess so we can call an ambulance to treat that absolutely devastating burn.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Request denied.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>RECORDER: Let the record show the witness has request a closed session, and that Doctor Geiszler has thus been removed from the proceedings, and that he has not objected to this request.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>MEMBER #1: Were you aware of Doctor Geiszler’s plans for the Sydney attack?</p><p class="article-text">SHAO: No.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: Were you aware Doctor Geiszler was intending to use the drone program to launch an attack against the PPDC?</p><p class="article-text">SHAO: No.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: Were you aware of Doctor Geiszler’s plans for the Tokyo incident?</p><p class="article-text">SHAO: No.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: How long did Doctor Geiszler work for Shao Industries?</p><p class="article-text">SHAO: Almost ten years.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: During that time, did Doctor Geiszler ever give you any indication his loyalties lay anywhere other than with Earth?</p><p class="article-text">SHAO: Only at the very end.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: What did you do, when you found out Doctor Geiszler’s true allegiance?</p><p class="article-text">SHAO: I tried to shoot him.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>PERSONAL REP.: Can you describe the incidents leading up to your departure from the Shatterdome?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I was approached while working by [WITNESS A] and the cadets. They were supposed to have study group, but Doctor Geiszler had not answered the door to our rooms. They grew concerned. I escorted them to our rooms and opened the door. Doctor Geiszler was not present, and there were some signs of struggle, including what I later learnt was a discarded recording of his abduction.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Let the record show reference to Exhibit D-16, an audio cassette recording of Doctor Geiszler identifying [REDACTED] and several other unnamed individuals, verbally objecting to their presence, and the sounds of Doctor Geiszler being forcibly removed from his quarters.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Please continue, Doctor.</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: The cadets and I embarked on a search for Doctor Geiszler’s whereabouts. We were joined by Rangers Pentecost and Lambert, who informed us there’d been talk of [REDACTED] and several other men seen entering Q-block. It’s a, uh. Facilities area; not heavily travelled. When we attempted to investigate, we discovered none of our passes would allow us entry.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Was that normal?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I am— was, the Director of K-Science. I had not been aware of any location within the Shatterdome I could not enter.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Had you successfully entered Q-block on previous occasions?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Yes.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: So locking you out was new?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Yes.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How did you ultimately gain entry?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Liwen Shao found us at the door. She had been attempting to locate us, and was quite distressed. She claimed she “did not know” what [REDACTED] had been intending to do. I in turn grew distressed at the . . . implications. Ms. Shao’s pass allowed us entry into Q-block.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Doctor, was Liwen Shao an employee of the PPDC at the time of this event?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: No.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: A contractor?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: No.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did Liwen Shao have any formal relationship with the PPDC at all?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: The PPDC purchases technological capabilities from SI. The relationship had been . . . strained, since Tokyo and the disastrous results of the drone program. Ms. Shao had spent a great deal of time with us, ostensibly with the understanding her company would be producing the materiel required for [REDACTED].</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: A vendor representative, then?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I suppose so, yes.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: In your experience, is it normal for vendors to have permanent passes and unescorted access to high-security areas of the Shatterdome?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Absolutely not.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What did you find in Q-block?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I . . . I entered Q-block with the cadets, Rangers, and Ms. Shao. We heard a male voice, asking— asking for information on [REDACTED]. Threatening consequences if— [inaudible]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Doctor?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: A-apologies. This is . . . difficult. To relive.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Take your time, Doctor.</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Thank you. I— I heard Newton screaming. Things grew chaotic. We entered a room and saw [REDACTED] and several men I could not identify. Not Corps. They had Newton strapped to a table and connected to— to the device he refers to as “Alice”. He was being forced into Drift with it. Repeatedly.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How many times?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I don’t know. Newton . . . we think he’d been there several hours, but he later told me he’d lost count. He, uh. Was non-verbal. When we found him.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Let the records show reference to Exhibit X, logs from the modified Pons device codename “Alice”. It shows a total of twenty-six attempts to establish a neural bridge with Doctor Geiszler, eighteen of which were successful, resulting in Drifts lasting from between eight seconds to seventeen minutes.</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: [inaudible]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: In your own time, Doctor, can you tell me what you believe [REDACTED] was trying to achieve.</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: He— he wanted information on how to [REDACTED]. It had been a point of contention over several weeks, and [REDACTED] was convinced Newton had information he was not sharing.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you believe that to be the case?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: No. No, I . . . I’d discussed the issue with Newton at length. My understanding, based on both those discussions and from my own Drift in 2025 was that [REDACTED] was not a specific technology the Precursors had developed, and as they could [REDACTED], they had no requirement to [REDACTED]. Moreover, my modeling indicated there would be no way to [REDACTED] without [REDACTED] due to the physical nature of [REDACTED].</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Where did “Alice” come into things?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: [REDACTED] knew both Newton and I had . . . extracted information previously known only to the Precursors in that way in the past. It would be logical to think it could be done again. But I also think— No, that’s . . . never mind.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Doctor Gottlieb? Please.</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: This is pure speculation, but . . . I also believe they were doing it simply to be cruel. [REDACTED] made no secret of his contempt for Newton and they had used coercive methods before, to no avail. I believe the fact I had been able to . . . obtain better results by simply being kind grated on them. [REDACTED] told me that . . . that if I could not extract the information they wanted from Newton he would “bring in someone who would.” He restated this to me, in that room. In some respects, I believe he was punishing me, too.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: For showing him up?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Questioning his authority, yes. It was not a secret Newton and I had an . . . intimate relationship. My judgment was suspect because of it.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did [REDACTED]’s plan work? Was the PPDC ever able to gain information on [REDACTED]?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: If they have, it was not from either Newton or myself.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Can you describe Doctor Geiszler’s mental and physical state after you found him?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Extremely poor. He’d been struggling against his restraints and had sustained physical injuries from it. Mentally he was . . . I believe the, for want of a better word, “human” parts of his mind and had been completely subsumed. He did not appear to understand human language or visual input, and was distressed and disorientated.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Was he violent?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Understandably so. I realized he was primarily processing input based on taste and smell. I had gotten careless and he had been about to bite my hand, but did not; he later told me I tasted of the chalk I use and that’s how he recognized me. After that, he was no longer aggressive towards me, though still resisted other contact. By this stage, [WITNESS A] had entered the room and was still carrying the cup of coffee she had brought Newton for study group; she’d simply forgotten to put it down, in all the fuss. I theorized he’d associate the smell of it with situations in which he was not under threat, and we used it to calm him enough to free him without injury. Then he passed out, I assume from the stress and the neural trauma.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What happened after that?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Ms. Shao was able to, uh—</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Use her Karen Powers.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: Doctor Geiszler . . .</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Hey, this is shit for us to relive too, man. Black humor is a cope.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: You may request to be excused if you’re finding this difficult.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: And leave Herms here alone? Fuck no.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: An admirable sentiment, but please show your support quietly and allow Doctor Gottlieb to finish his testimony.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [mouthed “sorry” to Doctor Gottlieb, made heart shape with fingers]</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Thank you, Newton. But, ah. Yes. Ms. Shao was able to sufficiently browbeat [REDACTED] such that he did not prevent Ranger Lambert and myself from leaving with the unconscious Doctor Geiszler. I believed it would be less distressing for Newton to wake somewhere familiar—particularly somewhere that smelt familiar—so we returned to our quarters. [REDACTED] had gone to fetch medical assistance, though there was little to be done until Newton awoke. Or . . . did not.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you believe that to be a possibility? That he’d never recover?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Even normal, consensual Drifts all carry with them that risk. So, yes. I very much believed it a possibility.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How long was Doctor Geiszler unconscious?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Nearly two days. I was about to move him to Medical when, ah . . . I fell asleep. Exhaustion, I suppose. When I awoke, [REDACTED] was pounding on my door and Newton was gone.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: He’d woken up?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Yes. He’d apparently stolen my pass—he was still not permitted unescorted access on his own—and locked himself in the lab overnight. They’d been about to cut through when [REDACTED] had been sent to find me.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What were you expecting to find in that lab?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Anything from nothing at all to an opened Breach spewing kaiju. I had no idea how much of Newton would be . . . Newton when we found him. You’ve heard his testimony how the forced separation from Alice had allowed him the mental space to question and discard the Precursors’ plans for Earth. It would be a reasonable assumption that re-exposure would have . . . reversed that progress.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What did you find?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: When we entered, Newton was at his workstation. He had a nailgun and threatened us to stay back. Then he injected himself with something.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What was it?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I didn’t know. He’d destroyed and sanitized all the equipment he’d used to create it.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: But you could guess?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: Newton . . . has a history of performing genetic manipulations on himself. You’ve likely noticed he can go for extremely long periods without blinking, for example; it’s due to a intentional editing of the genes that govern the composition and viscosity of his basal tears.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: My God, why?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Uh, it freaks people out? It’s like a stupid business school dominance body language thing. Go ask Steve Jobs about it.</p><p class="article-text">PRESIDENT: So . . . what had you done to yourself?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Got fucking sick of getting roughed up and dragged around by [REDACTED]’s assholes. So we tweaked a few metabolic indicators to give us more of an ability to, y’know. Resist. So we’re pretty strong now. Don’t break and bruise so easily, heal much quicker. That sort of thing.</p><p class="article-text">TRIBUNAL MEMBERS: [inaudible murmuring]</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I did not know this at the time. At the time, Newton grew worryingly ill worryingly quickly. Some of the things he said suggested he hadn’t been certain he’d survive, which I am still rather cross about.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [pouted, mouthed “love you” at Doctor Gottlieb]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How did you subdue Doctor Geiszler?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I didn’t. Once he’d finished what he set out to do, he told me he would go with me, and only me, without protest. He was obviously distressed and assumed he’d be returned to his cell or otherwise punished for the incident, but he was passive and resigned to whatever fate I decided for him. So we simply walked out.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What happened then?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: I . . . Quite frankly, I had had enough. I was in an extremely poor psychological state after watching my dearest friend and lover being tortured and then harming himself in a desperate bid to try and prevent it happening again. I was extremely angry with [REDACTED] for [REDACTED], and with the PPDC for denying Newton any form of due process, and I realized I could no longer in good conscience stay with the organization. So I called a contact at the German Consulate, requested amnesty for us both, and we fled.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: When you say you “requested amnesty”, what did that entail, exactly?</p><p class="article-text">GOTTLIEB: [gestured to the room] Newton has committed terrible acts; he does not deny them. All I have ever asked is that he be punished for them fairly and humanely, in accordance with the rule of law.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: No further questions.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>MEMBER #1: Doctor Geiszler, do you feel remorse for your actions while working at Shao Industries?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: No.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: Sydney? Tokyo?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: No.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #1: The destruction of the Shatterdomes?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: No.</p><p class="article-text">TRIBUNAL MEMBERS: [inaudible murmuring]</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: Doctor Geiszler, are you physiologically capable of feeling remorse in your current state?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Not the way you mean, no.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: Can you explain further?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We know “he” would’ve felt it; probably would still be curled in a fetal position in the corner having panic attacks over it all, honestly. But . . . who’s that going to help? It’s just gonna make us feel like shit and it’s not gonna undo anything we did or help the Earth kick the AV’s ass in response or whatever. So . . . eh.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: But, like, we get it; remorse is alien to the Flesh but it’s important for human social function, not feeling it is an indicator of psychopathy, blah blah blah. So we’ve been practicing.</p><p class="article-text">MEMBER #2: You’ve been practicing feeling remorse?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We’ve been practicing letting ourselves feel more of what he would’ve felt. Over all kinds of shit; marveling at the glory of nature and crying over emo music and getting that little thrill when we make Herms smile and whatever. Like, we spent ten years trying to train human emotion out of ourselves, had to have Alice’s help, and still never quite got there. We figure we can get ourselves back to something that works for everyone sooner or later. Just gotta keep at it. And we’re pretty motivated now, when there’s something we want. So we’ll get there.</p>
<hr/><p class="article-text"><a></a>PERSONAL REP.: Doctor Geiszler, how long did it take you to plan the attacks on the PPDC and Tokyo?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Consciously? Maybe five or six years? But unconsciously? Pretty much from the start.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: The start?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: First Drift, back in the War.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: So would it be fair to say you were operating under Anteverse influence since before the end of the War?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Yeah. Like, things ramped up faster from the third time on, but the itch was there, yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Why did you initiate a third Drift?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Things were kinda fucked up, after VK. Like, we’d won the war but we’d done it the “wrong” way, made a lot of the Sec-C look like fucking idiots for backing the Wall. Some were pretty fucking salty about it, and we kept getting dragged in front of these hearings to go over everything. “He” hated them; hated being made to feel stupid in public, was getting panic attacks, that sort of thing. And the thing about Alice is . . . it feels so good, y’know? No anxiety, no remorse, no second-guessing yourself. Just a pure fucking shot of alien confidence, beamed direct from a race that literally has no biological capacity to live another way. And a lot of the information from the first time was fading, and they kept asking him about it, over and over and over, and . . . it just seemed efficient, y’know? Kill two birds with one stone. We fucking owned that hearing, by the way. And the next one, and the next, and the fundraiser dinner, and the TV interviews, and you get the picture.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: This was around the time you were approached by Liwen Shao, yes?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Headhunted, yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Why did you take the job?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Bunch of reasons. Hermann didn’t like us much, back then; we were getting less and less like “him,” y’know, and Herms could tell, even if he couldn’t figure out what he was telling. So they started fighting again, really viciously, and Hermann’s a lot of things but an idiot isn’t one of them; we knew he’d figure us out if we stuck around. Bailing to Shao was safe, and we were already starting to get the idea we’d need, y’know. Resources. Time to line up all the dominos. Alice made that all seem really imperatively important. This really primal, existential urge. Like how most humans just wanna fuck and make more humans and don’t really question why or where that comes from. So you love someone but they don’t wanna make the babbies with you so you dump them and feel a bit sad about it but figure you’ll find someone else who will. Like that. But, like. With smooshing the Earth into paste.</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: So there was that. But, also, like we said; we figured it’d be easier to do what we had to do in the private sector. “He” was always convinced everyone in mil-indie was already morally compromised by definition; they’re all tripping over themselves with justifications for the fact their jobs exist solely to profit off the murder of other humans. How was what we wanted to do any different?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: So it would be fair to say you took the Shao Industries job solely because you felt it would help further the goals of the Anteverse?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Very fair, yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you ever discuss these goals openly?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Well, you gotta keep in mind our goals weren’t even “open” to ourself, exactly. We weren’t really consciously thinking about the endgame, not right until it was happening. But, it wasn’t exactly a secret we were a psychotic asshole who used to show up in pitch black three-piece suits with a black silk shirts underneath and crack jokes about how the metals we’d need for Project Whatever came from a strip mine we’d bullied some third-world government into bulldozing a rainforest for, and that was basically doing the Anteverse’s work for it, har har, hey who wants to go fill up the hot tub with Dom P and get wasted? Like, it wasn’t fucking subtle. Real cry for help; “he” wanted us to do something so fucking outrageous we’d get caught. Never happened. Not until we started killing people the PPDC actually gave a shit about, not just, like, political prisoners getting forced into Jaeger factories for “rehabilitation” and dying because safety standards? Just too fucking expensive, man. So sad. Oh well. Hey, you wanna eat gold-plated whale off a naked eighteen-year-old? Not worth it, by the way.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: What was Liwen Shao’s reaction to all this?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We hated her for letting us get away with it and she hated us for reminding her that she was.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: But she kept you on?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We made her so fucking rich, man. She’s never gonna forgive herself for that.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Doctor Geiszler, can you show the Tribunal Members your forearms, please?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: [held up forearms for inspection]</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Can you describe what they’re looking at?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Our tats, we’re guessing? Kaiju.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: How far do the tattoos extend?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Body suit, so collar to wrists to ankles.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Are all your tattoos kaiju?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Yup. Well, got the Anteverse on our legs. Like, in the background, y’know?</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you have these tattoos when you started working at Shao Industries?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Upper body, yeah.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: And Liwen Shao knew about them?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We were shirtless on the cover of <em>Rolling Stone</em> and a guest judge on <em>Ink Master</em>, man. Everyone fucking knew. Not to mention SI had an exec gym. Used to run into Shao there all the time, and it’s not like we were doing laps in a burkini.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Have you ever received negative treatment because of, specifically, the subject matter of your tattoos?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: All the fucking time, dude. Herms spent like a decade calling us a “kaiju groupie” and saying they were “distasteful and unprofessional.” We’ve been beat up or nearly beat up more times than we can count, thrown out of places . . . you name it, basically. People hate these fucking things. Never blamed them; figured it’d happen when “he” started getting them, way back when. But, like. The heart wants what the heart wants, man.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Have you ever been accused of being an agent of the Anteverse due to your tattoos?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Sure have.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Including while working at Shao Industries?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Yup.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did Liwen Shao know about these incidents?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: We had so many fucking HR complaints filed against us, man. Mostly people who’d had friends and family killed, y’know? Shao started ordering us to keep our sleeves rolled down in the office, only use the gym in off hours, that sort of thing.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: Did you?</p><p class="article-text">GEISZLER: Fuck no! Like, on the one hand; people worked on these things for hundreds of hours, man. Art is still art even when it gives people the uncomfies. But also, like we said; there was always a part of us that just wanted to get fucking caught.</p><p class="article-text">PERSONAL REP.: No further questions.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>... only one more chapter (and an epilogue) to go. Whew.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. “I should have shot you.”</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Normally this is the part where, alongside the lawyers and musicians ("You can't play X on a Y!"), this is where I'd apologize to, like, options traders and stock brokers for dubious financial strategies but, actually. No. Fuck those guys.</p>
<p>
  <em>And I twisted it wrong just to make it right / Had to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vPygzPSg8M">leave myself behind</a>.</em>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"><a></a>The scales grow through about a week before the tribunal is scheduled to start. They’ve been visible for a while, lurking just beneath the peeling skin, but on Thursday evening Newton emerges from the shower, freshly exfoliated and with an incredible mosaic of charcoal scutes running over his back, flanks, shoulders, upper arms, thighs, and spine. They’re tough and leathery, but smooth and warm and, well. Rather pleasant to touch.</p>
<p class="p1">“I suppose,” Hermann says, hands running up and down Newton’s sides, “it is the next logical step.”</p>
<p class="p1">This earns him a chuckle and a: “It’s not like we did it deliberately. But, like we said; didn’t get time to work out all the side effects.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I dread to think what you’ve done to your insides. Will you start spitting acid, do you think?”</p>
<p class="p1">“That would be so sick, dude.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yes. I’d imagine you’d think so.” They’re lying in bed, on their sides, facing each other. Quiet and intimate.</p>
<p class="p1">“It is a shame about the tattoos,” Hermann muses. The scales actually look rather lovely against the color, like some kind of temple mosaic. But the back piece in particular is almost completely gone, and perhaps he is feeling rather sentimental.</p>
<p class="p1">Except Newton just scoffs. “Dude. They’re still there in the dermis. The scales are over the top. If anything, they’ll protect the ink from the sun.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton wriggles closer, arm snaking around Herman’s waist. “Knew you always secretly loved them.”</p>
<p class="p1">“That has not been a secret for ten years. They are horrible and beautiful, just like their owner.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Sweet talker.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Only for you, darling,” Hermann says, and allows Newton to roll him over and push him gently into the bed.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>The tribunal is in Karlsruhe; closed, but not secret, and Hermann and Newton are effectively on house arrest—and heavy guard—in a suite at the Hotel Santo for the duration. Media and public interest has been, in a word, intense and, in another word, hostile. There have been a not insignificant number of threats, plus one (thankfully foiled) bombing attempt. To say public opinion is not on Newton’s side would be putting it mildly. It is the first official confirmation the public has had about the incidents in what is being tentatively termed the “Second Kaiju War,” and people are quite understandably terrified. The PPDC has apparently adopted a position of blanket no comment, and Shao Industries’s PR team has gone into overdrive, attempting to distance the company from any form of culpability whatsoever. The latter in particular leaves Newton fuming, and brooding, and sometimes outright scheming over steepled fingers, until Hermann finally intervenes with a, “Whatever you’re planning. Please do remember what you promised and keep it . . . proportional. Liwen did help us, at the end.”</p>
<p class="p1">This earns him an absolutely vicious grin (are Newton’s eyes bluer than before? Are his teeth sharper? Surely not) and a, “No kaiju?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’d prefer not.”</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ll keep that in mind.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann just sighs, and prays whatever’s coming is over quickly.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>The tribunal is both incredibly dull and incredibly arduous. Sessions are closed, meaning Hermann is not permitted entry when not testifying, meaning he spends days waiting on the uncomfortable couches in the foyer outside. It’s hell on his hip and his back and his leg and Newton pleads with him to remain in the hotel, at least until Hermann tells him, “I will not abandon you. Not again.”</p>
<p class="p1">This earns him a too-bright, too-piercing stare and, eventually: “None of this is your fault, dude. Not one single thing. You don’t owe us shit, and you don’t owe <i>him</i> shit either. It was never your job to save us from ourself, even before we made damn sure you couldn’t’ve.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah.” Hermann looks away, fingers fidgeting with the stitching on the chair that’s been his home for the last three days. “I . . .”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton sighs, and rubs consolingly up and down Hermann’s arms. “Just . . . think about it, okay? And we’ll do some sexy pretzel massage for you when we get home.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Be kind to yourself,” Hermann tells him, because that’s what he says every day. And then they kiss, and Hermann sits, and he waits.</p>
<p class="p1">And ten hours later—sometimes a little more, sometimes a little less—Newton emerges, dark and cold and distant. And they’re returned to the hotel in a government car, behind bulletproof glass, to try and get what rest they can before repeating it all over again.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>The tribunal is not a trial, and does not have the form of one. Ms. Kreuzer acts as a legal counsel, of a sort, and there is evidence, and witnesses. But there is no prosecution, and the proceedings are more inquisitive than adversarial. The identities of the panel members are not publicly disclosed, though consist of representatives from the German and American governments, and from the PPDC. The latter gives Newton the most trouble; his name is Anderson and has been sent from HQ in New York. Newton remembers him from the SI days as someone particularly easy to dazzle and bribe with not-quite-declarable lunches, and he’s quite obviously been sent to ensure the Corps, and Shao Industries, come out blameless from the whole debacle. Ironically, Kreuzer believes this will work to their advantage. “The PPDC wants you in the Hague,” she tells Newton, in their evening hotel restaurant retrospective session. “I suspect he’ll rule your lawful combatant status regardless of what he thinks of the legal argument.”</p>
<p class="p1">The American representative, Jonas, is a senior legal counsel in the State Department. Young and intelligent, and obviously absolutely fascinated by the whole affair. Kreuzer believes he’ll rule against them, but Newton isn’t so sure. “He stinks like a true believer,” he says. “His masters want what they want but he’ll go with what he thinks is right, legally.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Are you sure?” Kreuzer asks, and gets a raised eyebrow.</p>
<p class="p1">“Call it a survival skill.” Ten years at Shao, getting away with plotting the end of the entire planet. Of course Newton learned how to avoid anyone with even a whiff of morality or conscience. (<i>“Basically just meant we spent a decade hanging out with execrable dipshits we fucking hated,”</i> he’d told Hermann. <i>“So, y’know. Super great time in our life.”</i>)</p>
<p class="p1">And, finally, the German member; a stern older woman named Schalk, and a judge of the BVerfG. Another true believer. She does not particularly like Newton—who never can resist tweaking the pigtails of those he finds uptight-yet-admirable, as Hermann well-knows—but the German government’s only interest in the proceedings is to be seen to impartially uphold the law, and she will rule on the arguments and the arguments alone.</p>
<p class="p1">The realpolitik of it all is still absolutely exhausting.</p>
<p class="p1">“All it means,” Newton tells him later, sincere and gentle, “is we’ve just gotta lay it all out, and be honest. Hannah thinks the arguments are pretty solid, we’ve just gotta convince them on the whole ‘when they go low, we go high’ thing.” Meaning convincing the tribunal it’s more important for humanity to honor the spirit of its laws than it is to insist on legal nitpicking over whether its enemies do, too.</p>
<p class="p1">“And then the Hague,” Hermann says. He reminds himself he was the one who insisted on this. That Newton will go to trail, and most likely jail, and Hermann will lose him.</p>
<p class="p1">Again.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>Stone vanishes.</p>
<p class="p1">“Bailed the same day you did,” Pentecost says, as he and Hermann both wait outside the tribunal room. “Him and his whole crew. Like they didn’t even exist; no paperwork, no computer records, nothing.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Good Lord,” says Hermann. If he’d ever had suspicions of Stone being intelligence, they’re now confirmed. “Who’s acting as Marshal?”</p>
<p class="p1">Pentecost eyes him, oddly considering. Then: “Ask me again when this”—a jerk of his head towards the tribunal room—“is over.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>The BuenaKai have started a vigil; Hermann watches them through the glass, seated several stories above. They’re different than the ones he’s used to, dressed in charcoal grey and electric blue rather than shocking red, and the only thing they ever do is sing hymns and pray.</p>
<p class="p1">On the third week of hearings, Hermann slips out. He’s had a mission brewing in his mind for a while, and the agony of sitting and the stress of waiting have finally compelled him to action. He does not relish having to run the gauntlet of media constantly staked out in front of the building but, well. He supposes he’ll have to get used to them, sooner or later.</p>
<p class="p1">Three minutes later, Hermann is greatly regretting his life choices as the storm of shouted questions and camera flashes and boom mics and cell phones descends upon him. The BPOL are there to keep the tides back, but they’re wildly outnumbered and Hermann’s heart is hammering and isn’t that ridiculous? Of all the things he’s faced, this is what he’s frightened of? Smug questions and screamed accusations and oh Lord this will be on the television, fleeing the courthouse like a criminal and then, quite suddenly, a tide of humming charcoal dark surges between Hermann and the press.</p>
<p class="p1">The BuenaKai, forming a human shield. And as Hermann darts down a side-street, his eyes meet those of a girl, no more than twenty-five, who smiles at him in beatific rapture.</p>
<p class="p1">“Th-thank you?” Hermann manages, because he’s still rather British, even in Germany.</p>
<p class="p1">“Anything for the Emissary’s beloved consort,” says the girl, completely sincerely.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh dear Lord,” Hermann blurts, and flees.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>Hermann does not tell Newton about the encounter. He doesn’t know how to bring it up, for starters, but Newton is not stupid and he’s been a voracious consumer of news since this all began. Hermann’s sure he knows all about his little . . . following.</p>
<p class="p1">Instead, Hermann’s jittery and nervous all through dinner, which does not go unnoticed. It isn’t until they’re back in their room, stripping down from their day clothes, that Newton finally corners him with a, “Dude, you’ve been twitchy all night. Are you okay? Did something happen?” The shadow of a scowl flicks across his face. It’s one of Newton’s new expressions, the ones promising annihilation and oblivion to those who wrong him. Or wrong Hermann, in this case.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah, no,” Hermann not-quite-lies. “I just . . .” He takes a deep breath, shifts to face his husband.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton’s shoes are off and his shirt is undone, sleeves rolled down and cuffs hanging open. Teeth snarl from his belly, a constellation of inked eyes that watch Hermann with the fervor of a temple mara. A lesson and a warning: the folly of hate and delusion, of the fear of death and change, of attachment to material goods and false realities.</p>
<p class="p1">And of Hermann’s weakness, the Devaputramara; the pleasures of the flesh.</p>
<p class="p1">“I, ah . . .” Hermann reaches into his pocket, pulls out the little box he’s had there since lunchtime. “I never seem to be very good at this,” he says, handing the box to Newton, trying not to fidget.</p>
<p class="p1">The bed dips as Newton sits down, side pressed against Hermann’s, bodily and comforting. Hermann’s hears the little creak as the ring box opens.</p>
<p class="p1">“Apologies I cannot keep you in the style to which you are accustomed,” Hermann says, joke feeling a little too anxious, a little too raw. “I couldn’t afford the diammph!” As his face is turned, and Newton kisses him.</p>
<p class="p1">The rings are plain platinum bands, flat and wide, but otherwise unadorned. It takes an illogical number of swaps to find whose is whose, and after they just sit, fingers laced, staring. It’s such a simple thing but seeing their hands like that, so different—Hermann’s fingers bony and thin, Newton’s thick and strong and with nails slowly growing through in hard black keratin—yet linked by a single silver stripe.</p>
<p class="p1">“I love you,” Hermann says, because he doesn’t think he has, and because he wants Newton to know. “I loved you then and I love you now and I’ll love you always.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton sniffs. “Thank you,” he breathes. “We—” He cuts himself off, and two teardrops splatter onto the fabric of his sleeve. “Thank you.” He turns his head into Hermann’s shoulder, and Hermann unlinks their hands just long enough to cradle Newton close, and hold him as he weeps.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>The article runs in <i>WIRED</i>. They knew it was coming; the reporter, Taylor, has been chasing them for comment for weeks. He doesn’t get one, at least not on the record, but there are plenty of other people more than happy to talk.</p>
<p class="p1">Shao Industries, as it turned out, was not a happy workplace.</p>
<p class="p1">A toxic, demanding corporate culture. Endemic bullying and harassment, the pursuit of profit above all else, executive decadence that would make Caligula blush. It isn’t entirely a surprise; Newton’s been candid that, even discounting all outside influences, he loathed the company and his behavior there reflected that.</p>
<p class="p1">“Thing is,” he tells Hermann. “When your company’s entire profit stream is beholden to a genocidal psycho, the only people who end up working for you are either quislings or other psychos. Everyone else we churned through like a fucking butter factory.”</p>
<p class="p1">A butter factory fast going rancid in the sunlight, and the CCP is furious. Shao’s CFO vanishes from an airport in Montreal on a Monday, and reappears a week later on CCTV-1 issuing a groveling apology for, officially, tax evasion and “theft of resources from the people of China.”</p>
<p class="p1">“That’s the warning shot,” Newton says.</p>
<p class="p1">“Did you know him?” They’re watching telly in the hotel, lying exhausted and half-dressed on top of the duvet, trying to work up the energy to go to dinner.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah,” says Newton. “Jack. He was all right, never cheated on his wife, very invested in his kids. Mostly just spineless.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann watches the man on the television, haggard and ill-kept and shaking, thanking the Party for granting him a “chance to make amends.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I do feel sorry for him,” he eventually says.</p>
<p class="p1">“Would you still feel sorry for him if I told you he made over a hundred million yuan last year alone? And that’s just salary.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah.”</p>
<p class="p1">“He was a nice guy, don’t get us wrong. But he knew what he was doing. We all did; all busy destroying the planet in our own little way. None of us were getting away with it forever.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>They’re eating lunch from takeaway containers in the hearing’s foyer when they’re accosted by the distinctive <i>click-click</i> of fast-approaching stiletto heels. Hermann doesn’t even bother looking up from his tablet as a folder of papers is thrown down onto their table and Liwen Shao demands, “What is this?” voice absolutely incandescent with rage.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann flicks Newton his best disapproving librarian look over his glasses, gets an absolutely shameless, butter-wouldn’t-melt wink in return. Then Newton leans back in his chair and says, in accented but otherwise fluent Mandarin: “This whole thing where you kick us out of the tribunal doesn’t work if you’re just going to jump us in the foyer, instead.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Do not play games with me. I asked you a question.” Shao has the determination and the terror of a Ranger about to face down a kaiju which, Hermann supposes, is not an entirely inaccurate description of what is happening.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton sighs the sigh of a very busy man being forced to deal with something deeply beneath him. “You’ve been filing patents,” he says, not even bothering to open Shao’s folder. “Looking for new markets. Med-tech. We went through them. Y’know, for funsies. Funny story, though? Whole bunch of stuff had us thinking, ‘Huh. This looks almost exactly like it’s based off the theoretical shit we did for Herms, back in our Hannibal Hole.’ Like, surely that’d be a coincidence though, right? Surely the great, brilliant <i>Liwen Shao</i> wouldn’t be so desperate to steal the ravings of a dangerous madman from the <i>Pan Pacific Defense Corps</i> and try and patent them? Surely not!”</p>
<p class="p1">“I had an agreement with Marshal Stone.”</p>
<p class="p1">“With who?” Newton says. “Oh, the dude who was never a PPDC employee, was never at the ‘Dome, was certainly never a Marshal and, oh actually, never existed. <i>That</i> Marshal Stone?”</p>
<p class="p1">“You cannot—”</p>
<p class="p1">“Poor little Liwen Shao.” Newton shakes his head in mock sadness. “Just so incredibly bad at choosing good friends. And it gets better. Because after our little discovery, we started going back over <i>all</i> SI’s patent applications. Last ten years. Most of it’s legit, no problems there; lots of great Jaeger tech innovations that’ll be fantastically popular once you can convince people they’re totally safe this time, we swear. But sprinkled in like delicious tasty choc-chips? All this stuff we recognized from shit we <i>didn’t</i> make for you. Personal projects, half-finished doodles, that sort of thing. Like someone was going through our mental trash can and stealing all the soggy fries for themselves.” Newton waves one of the items in question, for emphasis.</p>
<p class="p1">“Now, Herms here thinks you’re a bang-up gal and, we told him we’d believe him and we will. It’s a big company, shit happens; as we <i>all</i> well know. So maybe an overly ambitious engineer flips through his boss’s notebook one evening, gets some ideas, polishes them up and punts them down the pipeline. Happens every day, right? Not your job to keep track of it all.”</p>
<p class="p1">“No,” says Shao. “It was yours.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Ironic, right?” Newton throws his arms up. “What a funny world we live in. But, here’s the thing. That? That just makes us negligent. Doesn’t mean the theft wasn’t theft. And here’s the other thing. Combined revenue for all that . . .”—he waves a hand, like he’s trying to find the right word—“<i>misplaced</i> IP? Conservative estimate is that it came in at about four billion yuan last FY alone. Pocket change, compared to the Jaeger tech. But still.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Get to the point.” Practically spat.</p>
<p class="p1">“Sooner or later,” Newton says, “one way or another, our assets—our legitimately earned assets, you understand—get unfrozen. <i>Lot</i> of SI stock all tied up there, all kinds of options that’re suddenly looking good to move on. Kinda seems, y’know. Unethical for us to keep them, after everything, right? We definitely consider ourself an activist investor, but figure the optics on that one aren’t gonna fly, this time. Except we’ve been checking the markets and, ouch, man. Good thing we took and never cashed in all those sky-high strike price puts when the going was good, huh? Sell those, short call the rest . . .”</p>
<p class="p1">Financial extortion, in other words, but entirely legal. Calling in the over-priced options for a significant figure more than their current value, combined with dumping the unoptioned stock to flood the market and cause a value crash. Recoverable, but likely to spook investors into a failure cascade, particularly once people get wind of exactly <i>who</i> is cashing out. Not a good look, for an already struggling company.</p>
<p class="p1">“What. Do you. Want.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Ten years, we learnt from you,” Newton says. “Beautifully ruthless. Alice taught us so much but so did you, our other great mentor. We’ve been thinking how to put all that to best use. Y’know, now we’ve recommitted ourselves to preserving this rotting spitball of a planet. So, in the great spirit of corporate caritas, we’re establishing a foundation, the Pacific Renewal Trust. Been making a few calls. <i>Lot</i> of people we used to hang with in the old days suddenly <i>very interested</i> in throwing money into that bucket.” A lot of people suddenly very interested in cleaning their dirty laundry, in other words. “And when things get thawed at the ol’ Casa de Geiszler, figured we could pretty easily add the whole SI portfolio as the cherry.” A pause, one of those vicious grins. “First projects will be cleanup and restitution for Sydney and Tokyo. Figure it’s the least we can do.”</p>
<p class="p1">From the corner of his eye, Hermann can see Shao’s fist, curled so tight it’s shaking. “Hermann—” she starts.</p>
<p class="p1">“Do not,” he snaps, “involve me in your little game. I find all this Wolf of Lujiazui nonsense extremely distasteful, but I am Newton’s husband, not his keeper. And while I will be forever grateful for the assistance you gave us, at the end, do not think it simple for me to overlook the rest of it, either.” Hermann truly believes Liwen Shao to be a good woman, at heart. But, rightly or wrongly, he will never forgive her for those ten years, and they will never be anything other than work colleagues, cordial and distant. Besides, Hermann deals in existential threats, not ruthless business and wounded corporate pride. Those are Shao’s territory. And now, apparently, Newton’s also.</p>
<p class="p1">“The patents,” Shao says, after a moment. “If they were to be . . . gifted. To your Trust . . .”</p>
<p class="p1">“Then <i>all</i> our Shao Industries assets would follow them,” Newton says, all-too easily. “Untouched. And we have no formal position at the Trust and receive no remuneration; no tax write-offs, no directing future projects, nothing. We aren’t even on the board. There’s a seat for you, though. If you want it.”</p>
<p class="p1">Shao breathes sharply; once in, once out. “I do not think that that will be appropriate,” she finally says.</p>
<p class="p1">“Suit yourself. Offer’s open if you want it. Salary’s three mil; chump change for you, we know. But . . .” But Shao’s company is in ruins, the CCP is humiliated and furious, and Newton just stripped her of her best market pivot. “By the way,” he says. “We never got to congratulate you. Heard you’re an absolute ace in a Conn-Pod. And with all this talk of invasions, we’re sure Nate and Jake and Amara and all the little nerdlings would <i>love</i> to have you on the team. Anything to up that ol’ pilot survival rate, huh?”</p>
<p class="p1">Funny, Hermann thinks. How he never before understood Shao’s fear of the monster she helped create. After all, the only thing Newton ever tried to do to Hermann was strangle him.</p>
<p class="p1">“I should have shot you,” Shao hisses, perhaps thinking the same thing. Then she spins on her heels, and stalks away.</p>
<p class="p1">“See you on the front lines!” Newton calls, viciously gleeful.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann waits until they’re alone once more, sipping his too-cold, over-brewed tea. Eventually, he says: “Did that make you feel better?”</p>
<p class="p1">And Newton . . . Newton actually considers this. He’s scowling, picking at the dismembered remains of his burger, attention focused deeply inward. Eventually, he says: “No. No, just . . . dirty. Mostly.” A pause, then: “We’ll remember that. For next time.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>Shao delivers her testimony to the tribunal and flies out the next day. By the time she’s landed, the news of her resignation from Shao Industries, and of her recruitment into the PPDC’s Ranger program, is almost enough to knock Newton out of the headlines.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>And then, somehow, nearly two months since it started, the tribunal is over.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="article-text"><a></a>—situation we’ve been presented with is entirely novel. For the first time in human history we are assessing whether the laws of war should apply to an adversary who is not only not a signatory to them, but by all indicators is biologically unable to understand their operation. We have heard days of testimony from experts on whether or not it is existentially expedient, or even acceptable, to constrain ourselves with such ethical concerns when the alternative is the utter annihilation of our species.</p>
<p class="article-text">The position this Tribunal has reached, the only one we believe logically can be reached, is a wholesale rejection of such a false dichotomy. The human race will fight, and we will endure, and we will do both without sacrificing our hard-won morality, our humanity. And we will be stronger for it.</p>
<p class="article-text">To the question then, of whether Doctor Newton Geiszler fulfilled the criteria of a privileged enemy combatant during his attacks on the PPDC and Tokyo, we must look to the law. The Geneva Conventions, ratified by all member nations of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps, traditionally set four tests to determine this question in the case of those not associated with a formal military structure. Firstly, that an individual is commanded by a person responsible for subordinates. Secondly, of having a fixed, distinctive sign, recognizable at a distance. Thirdly, of carrying arms openly. And fourthly, of conducting operations in accordance with the laws and customs of war.</p>
<p class="article-text">Regarding point one, testimony on the nature of the Precursors would, in this Tribunal’s opinion, appear to preclude compliance with this requirement. How to apply such a human notion to an alien race that has no sense of individual culpability? And yet, evidence in Doctor Geiszler’s case indicates that he was, indeed, being commanded; in this case by residual Precursor programming in the device codenamed “Alice.” Once separated from this “commanding officer,” Doctor Geiszler ceased hostilities and accepted surrender to the PPDC. It is thus this Tribunal’s opinion that Doctor Geiszler does meet this criteria.</p>
<p class="article-text">Regarding point two, though contentious, it is the opinion of the majority of the Tribunal that Doctor Geiszler’s extensive tattoos, which he has never at any point attempted to hide or obfuscate, fulfill the criteria for a “fixed, distinctive sign.” Nonetheless it is certainly not this Tribunal’s intent to imply all individuals with controversial body art should be considered Anteverse combatants, in the same way not every individual with, for example, an American flag tattoo is necessarily a member of the American Armed Forces, or even necessarily an American at all. Thus, in the specific case of Doctor Geiszler—and no further—it is the opinion of this Tribunal that this requirement is met.</p>
<p class="article-text">Regarding point three, it is indisputable that Doctor Geiszler was involved in the manufacture of arms, and that this association was indeed so well-known it lead directly to his eventual defeat and capture. In as much as these “arms” were able to be carried openly, it is the opinion of this Tribunal that Doctor Geiszler did so, thus meeting this requirement.</p>
<p class="article-text">Finally, on point four, it is the opinion of this Tribunal that Doctor Geiszler’s exact conformity to the laws and conventions of war are outside of the immediate remit. Nonetheless it is the opinion of this Tribunal that both Doctor Geiszler specifically and the Anteverse in general do and have launched actions against Earth that are both strategically targeted and obviously recognizable to Earthly observers as warfare. This Tribunal leaves all further rulings on this issue up to the courts.</p>
<p class="article-text">As such, based on the above criteria, it is the formal ruling of this Tribunal that Doctor Geiszler does meet the standards required to convey privileged enemy combatant status as, from the Anteverse’s perspective, a resistance member in occupied territory. As such, he is to be considered and treated as a prisoner of war while in Earthly custody, and to be afforded all appropriate protections and rights thereof, as defined in the Third Geneva Convention.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>Jacob and Karla are waiting from them when they get out of the hearing room, ready to make the drive back to Garmisch-Partenkirchen.</p>
<p class="p1">“This was what you wanted?” Jacob asks his son, in between hugs. “This is good?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah, Dad,” Newton assures him. “This is good.” Better than disappearing into the legal void of terrorism charges and civil actions. Newton is, as of today, officially in the formal custody of the Bundeswehr, as a legally recognized prisoner of war. Theoretically, he could remain so indefinitely. Or at least until the War ends, which, if Newton is correct, may as well be the same thing.</p>
<p class="p1">“What . . . what will happen now?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well. Right now? We’re gonna go home, then pass out for like a century. Or at least until they come and tell us what charges they’re hitting us with in the Hague.”</p>
<p class="p1">“War crimes?”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton shrugs, gives his father a pat on the shoulder and a not-quite smile. “C’mon. Let’s bail before they let the paps in.” He steers them towards the doors.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann follows, taking Newton’s hand when it stretches out towards him, trying not to feel like there’s a War Clock hanging overhead, slowly counting down to the time everything falls apart once more.</p>
<p class="p1">The clamor of reporters outside is deafening. Hermann is all for simply barreling past—he’s at least somewhat used to the attention, but Karla and Jacob deserve their privacy—except, of course, Newton stops to address them. Hermann doesn’t even know if he’s truly answering a question, or has merely decided to host an impromptu press conference when he opens his mouth to say (in surprisingly comprehensible Berliner German, given his usual abomination of an accent):</p>
<p class="p1">“What we did in Tokyo and to the PPDC was unforgivable. And when my genius husband invents a time machine, we’ll be first in line to go back and correct that mistake. Until that day, the only thing we can do is move forward, and once again devote ourself to the Earth’s war effort against the Anteverse. Even more than that, there is a great deal of knowledge up here”—he taps his head—“that the right minds, working together, can put towards the betterment of all humanity. In biology and in medicine, in engineering and in physics. Even linguistics. But when we say all humanity, we mean <i>all</i>. This knowledge was hard-bought with the blood of the Anteverse’s victims. It is our restitution to you, and it is not something to be locked up behind exclusive patents, to be exploited so yet another C-suite can buy yet another private jet. We chose that life when we were trying to destroy you, and if we go back to it . . . then you’ll know we have a problem.” Then he <i>winks</i>, the irredeemable cad, and turns his back on the riot of questions and camera flashes.</p>
<p class="p1">“You are absolutely incorrigible,” Hermann hisses at him, as they link their arms and walk away.</p>
<p class="p1">“Ten years’ fucking practice, babe. Viva la— oh, wait.” Because now he’s seen the BuenaKai, and he turns himself and Hermann bodily towards them. Then he throws his free arm into the air, and yells: “Be excellent to each other. And party on, dudes!”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann supposes there are worse philosophies in life.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>“Sorry I’m late.”</p>
<p class="p1">Kreuzer strides into the dingy little rented office space a good sixteen minutes after their session was supposed to begin. On the plus side, Anderson was seven minutes late, meaning Hermann and Newton have only been sitting alone with him in the room for a little over five hundred and forty awful seconds.</p>
<p class="p1">The man attempted to make <i>small talk</i>. About their family. This pissant little creature that wants to take Newton away from him would <i>dare</i> to ask after Jacob, after Karla. They’ve been back home for nearly two weeks and it may just be the case that Hermann is getting somewhat on edge, the closer their uncertain future looms.</p>
<p class="p1">Anderson is here because he has been sent to explain what charges the PPDC intends to file against Newton at the International Court of Justice. And Hermann knew this day would come; he upended his own life to see it happen. But, Lord. What he wouldn’t give to be hiding back in his room at the Shatterdome, Newton working by his side, in those brief weeks of almost-bliss, just before the end.</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ll make this quick,” Anderson says. “Your client’s looking at Article 51 and 35 for Tokyo, 51 and 39 for Sydney and the Shatterdome attacks.”</p>
<p class="p1">“35 covers the kaiju themselves,” Kreuzer explains to Newton. “It prohibits the use of weapons intended or expected to cause ‘superfluous injury or unnecessary suffering’ and ‘widespread, long-term and severe damage to the natural environment.’”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton shrugs. They’ve gone over this before.</p>
<p class="p1">“51 is indiscriminate attacks against civilian populations.” She turns to Anderson. “The Shatterdome attacks were all targeted drone strikes against strategic military sites. Civilian casualties were regrettable but incidental, and I believe you’ll find we are not the ones with the most to lose if that claim is found substantiated. And 39? Perfidy, really? Ambushes are a legally permitted ruse de guerre.”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s not for that,” Anderson says. “It’s for coopting the uniform of the PPDC. The Jaeger.”</p>
<p class="p1">Kreuzer’s eyebrows hike. “They were commercially available materiel,” she says.</p>
<p class="p1">“<i>Earth</i> materiel,” is the answer. “Not Anteverse.”</p>
<p class="p1">Kreuzer seems to think about this. Then: “Very well. Is that all?”</p>
<p class="p1">“For now.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Our counter-offer, then.”</p>
<p class="p1">Anderson actually rears back, just a fraction, in surprise. “‘Counter-offer’?”</p>
<p class="p1">Kreuzer flips open her folder, which is full of more folders. She pulls them out, one-by-one, and drops them onto the table as she speaks. Still standing, so the <i>thwap</i> they make when they land is rather dramatic.</p>
<p class="p1">“Unlawful detention and depriving a prisoner a fair trial. Torture of a prisoner of war. Unnecessary medical procedures performed on a prisoner of war without consent. Forcing a prisoner of war to serve in the forces of a hostile power. Denying a prisoner of war contact with family members. Denying a prisoner of war fair access to financial resources, including pay for work performed. Development of biological weapons with the intent to deploy. Forcing a prisoner of war to develop biological weapons with the intent to deploy. Use of child soldiers.” The end of the folders, but Kreuzer isn’t done, adding: “And, if perfidy is on the table, the use of traps involving the dead.”</p>
<p class="p1">The last one in particular seems to throw Anderson. “ . . . What?”</p>
<p class="p1">“The Throat.” Hermann almost gasps it. It’s so . . . they hadn’t even thought about it, at the time. But: “The first War ended because we used a kaiju corpse to deliver a bomb. We know no other way through the Throat.”</p>
<p class="p1">Kreuzer gestures, broadly. “My client is the lawful combatant of a recognized belligerent party. It is now <i>all</i> fair game.”</p>
<p class="p1">Anderson looks outraged. “You’re talking about a <i>kaiju</i>,” he sneers. “Barely an animal.”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s a sentient extraterrestrial entity,” Kreuzer says. “And an enslaved one at that. Anything further is for the court to decide. The only reason we’re not slapping you with the nuke is my client has consistently maintained its impact on the Anteverse was negligible.”</p>
<p class="p1">“This . . . this is ridiculous. Your <i>client</i> is a genocidal maniac and you’re nitpicking about whether it was a war crime to save the entire Earth by blowing up a glorified lizard.”</p>
<p class="p1">“They’re actually not—” is as far as Newton gets. But, for once, no one is listening.</p>
<p class="p1">“My client,” Kreuzer says, “was experiencing extreme psychological distress brought on by the world’s first and only documented case of actual, legitimate, physically provable brainwashing. And even under those circumstances he <i>still</i> doesn’t deny responsibility for what he did and is prepared to stand trial for it. In other words, Mr. Anderson, as far as my client is concerned? Aliens made him do it. What excuse does yours have?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I—”</p>
<p class="p1">“See you in the Hague, Mr. Anderson. I think you’ll find we’re done here.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>The PPDC unfreezes Newton’s estate, which results in several days spent stalking around the house, talking into a freshly purchased earpiece with a seemingly endless number of investment brokers, financial planners, accountants, tax lawyers and, somehow most distressingly, personal bankers because, “Yeah, after the first few dozen mil the banks basically give you your own branch. Why do you think you never seen rich people lined up at the counter?”</p>
<p class="p1">At the end of it all, Newton is—at least on paper—a significantly less wealthy man. As promised, all of his SI assets go into his newly formed charitable foundation, along with most of his liquid assets, including those from the sale of his Shanghai apartment. The diversified investments go into his discretionary trust, and the rest vanishes into an extraordinarily complicated network of taxes, both Chinese and American. (Hermann had wondered, since it had been mentioned, and is somehow unsurprised to learn America is one of only two countries in the world to levy taxes against non-resident citizens. Newton had joked renouncing his citizenship had “paid for itself, dude” in the decrease both in the tax burden and the administrative fees. On the flip side, he’d lamented he’d “like, never be allowed back in the country” but admitted that “was probably going to happen anyway, hey.”)</p>
<p class="p1">They get into a strange sort of argument when Hermann discovers that, not only has he been nominated as a beneficiary for Newton’s family trust, but that the so-called annual stipend—a cool quarter of a million euros—is far in excess of any salary he’s ever received.</p>
<p class="p1">“Well fucking rain it down onto the street, Joker-style if you don’t want it,” Newton says, when challenged. “We don’t give a shit. But you destroyed your career for us, dude. And after—” He stops himself, looking away. “If you can’t . . . find anywhere. After this is over . . . Well you won’t have to fucking worry, will you? You can do whatever the fuck you want.”</p>
<p class="p1">And, oh but it hurts Hermann’s heart to think of it, if only because he knows Newton is <i>right</i>. Hermann’s entire career was the PPDC and, before that, academia. In between charging the former with war crimes and his now somewhat less than entirely sterling reputation . . .</p>
<p class="p1">He sighs, sits himself next to Newton on the sofa. “All right,” he says, threading their fingers together. “If only so you don’t fret.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton leans sideways, head resting on Hermann’s shoulder. “Karla’s a beneficiary, too,” he admits. “Dad likes it here, and he likes your sister, and she likes him. She happy for him to stay, but was going to rent out this house. Like, Airbnb, y’know?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Hah!” Hermann blurts. “I knew it!”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton chuckles. “But, well. Harder when Dad’s living in her flat, right? So we told her we’d, like. Pay. For the lost income.” A pause. “She told us to get fucked—in exactly those words—but we’re going to do it anyway.”</p>
<p class="p1">“And . . . for yourself?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah, don’t worry ‘bout us, Herms. You know the Bundeswehr has to feed and house us now, and apparently they even owe us pocket money, once they can figure out exactly which provision applies. We’ll be fine.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann just sighs, and pulls him close, and tries not to feel their time running out.</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>On the day everything ends, Hermann bolts awake in the wee hours to, once again, find himself alone in bed. He tells himself not to worry, rolls over and tries to get back to sleep then, after ten minutes of growing anxiety, admits this is not a thing that will happen. So he rises, throws on a robe, and goes to find Newton.</p>
<p class="p1">He gets as far as the bottom of the staircase when he hears: “It’s late, dude. Go back to sleep.”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s early, actually,” Hermann corrects, earning himself a snort from the shadowed, blanket-covered lump on the lounge.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton is just . . . sitting. In the dark. Staring at the dying fire in the hearth or the softly falling snow through the windows or both, or neither, and Hermann sits beside him. Wordlessly, they shift together so they’re both stretched out beneath the blanket, Hermann settled atop Newton’s chest, hand stroking the strange new textures beneath his hoodie.</p>
<p class="p1">Eventually, Newton says:</p>
<p class="p1">“We’ve been thinking.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh dear.”</p>
<p class="p1">Which earns him blunt, black-nailed fingers, poking him in the sides while he squirms and stifles laughter and Newton squarks, “We’re trying to have a serious conversation here, dipass!”</p>
<p class="p1">“A seriou—? Where is my husband? What have you done with him?”</p>
<p class="p1">And then more wrestling, and giggling, until Newton’s pressing his hand over Hermann’s mouth with a, “Sssh! Ssh! You’ll wake your terrifying sister!”</p>
<p class="p1">“<i>Your</i> terrifying sister, now,” Hermann says, or tries to say, though it comes out incomprehensibly muffled.</p>
<p class="p1">Eventually, their giggling subsides, and they settle again, hands gently stroking warm skin more for comfort than pleasure.</p>
<p class="p1">“You were right,” Newton says, assumedly continuing his earlier thought. “About Shao. It didn’t— we didn’t feel... good. After.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann collects a hand from his side and presses a kiss against the knuckles.</p>
<p class="p1">“We told you we’d remember. For next time.” A pause. “This is next time.”</p>
<p class="p1">“With the Corps?” Hermann guesses.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah. We just . . . we want to . . . drop things. If they still want to rake us across the coals, fine. Whatever. But . . . the other stuff. We’re gonna tell Hannah to drop the counter-suit.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann exhales, slowly. “I—” <i>I brought you here so </i>they<i> could face justice, too,</i> he does not say. “They hurt you,” he does.</p>
<p class="p1">“Everyone who did is gone, baby, gone,” Newton says. “And who’s left? Who’s the shit actually gonna roll down to? Nate and Jake? Cerise? <i>You</i>? We just— It’s like Tokyo, all over again. Maybe it still <i>is</i> Tokyo, in some fucked-up way. Still trying to finish what we started just because we started it and because we’ve convinced ourself we’re in too fucking deep to stop. But we’re not. We never were. We can always stop fucking digging. <i>Someone</i> has to stop fucking digging.”</p>
<p class="p1"><i>They’ll take you away from me,</i> Hermann doesn’t say. <i>I just got you back. I don’t . . . I can’t . . . </i>He can stop the words but not the way his arms tighten, his fingers clench.</p>
<p class="p1">Newton feels it, feels the hitch in Hermann’s breath. “Hey,” he says. “We’ll be okay. We’re a rich white guy; worst comes to worst we’ll end up in some fancy pants minimum security private butler jail and we can take up squash or some shit in between conjugal visits from our honey.” He rubs Hermann’s shoulders, presses a kiss to his brow.</p>
<p class="p1">“That is not an accurate description of the UNDU,” Hermann murmurs.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah,” says Newton. “We know. We read the same Wikipedia article.” A pause. “Also, we already play squash.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Of course you do.”</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s so fucking violent, man, like whoa. Basically bare knuckle boxing for business execs. Took a guy’s front teeth out with a back-swing once, and that was one of the accidental injuries.”</p>
<p class="p1">“I’m sure you’ll be the terror of the yard. All the other three inmates will tremble before you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton snorts. “Yeah, well. Serves them right for just doing <i>boring</i> normal human war crimes. Not super cool inter-dimensional alien war war crimes.”</p>
<p class="p1">Funny, Hermann thinks, how neither of them are assuming Newton will be found not guilty. It’s not entirely impossible; the case for the Shatterdome attacks is particularly weak—they were war, certainly, but arguably legally so—and Tokyo largely hinges on whether the court will rule a thwarted single attack is sufficient to represent the Anteverse’s entire known war goal.</p>
<p class="p1">“Either way,” Newton says. “Whatever happens, it won’t be forever. We got through the War, we got through Shanghai. We’ll get through this, too.”</p>
<hr/>
<p class="p1"><a></a>They don’t sleep much more after that, and don’t return to bed. Karla finds them in the morning and scolds them with a, “If you’re going to brood on my couch all night you can at least tend the fire while you’re at it.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann makes coffee and eats breakfast watching Newton exercise in the living room. Outside, the snow turns everything stark and white and muffled. Dead and lurking and somehow sinister, though perhaps that’s just Hermann’s instinctual hatred of the season.</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s Hanukkah soon,” he says, mostly to fill the gaps between Newton’s sharp, purposeful breaths.</p>
<p class="p1">“Yeah.”</p>
<p class="p1">They’d missed the High Holidays, ironically too caught up in Newton’s tribunal. Hermann and Karla are not particularly observant, beyond the obligatory <i>shanah tovah</i>s at Rosh Hashanah, and Newton and Jacob aren’t religious at all—Newton is, if anything, an antitheist—but sometimes it’s nice to have an excuse for a good meal, for good company. They both share a desperate loathing of Christmas, and New Year feels so very far, so . . . perhaps they should do something. Particularly in Mother’s house; sincere and devoted in her quiet belief in a way the rest of their family had never really followed in.</p>
<p class="p1">Would that be . . . disrespectful, somehow? For Hermann to dust off an old menorah (or, more likely, purchase a new one)? A token gesture, forty years too late, simply because he’s suddenly feeling very old and very tired and absolutely terrified of being left behind, of being forgotten, once again?</p>
<p class="p1">“Why so glum, chum?”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton is looking up at him, sweaty and sprawled out on his mat on the floor, beautiful and broken and strange. Lord, Hermann loves him.</p>
<p class="p1">And Hermann opens his mouth to say this, to say <i>something</i>, except that’s when they hear the car, rolling down the drive.</p>
<p class="p1">“At this hour?” Hermann says. “Really?” He’s not even properly dressed, and they aren’t expecting anyone.</p>
<p class="p1">Frowning, he stands to look out the front window. The approaching car is enormous and black and bears government plates. Hermann gets an uneasy feeling in his gut; one that falls into confusion when the car rolls to a stop and Jake Pentecost gets out.</p>
<p class="p1">“Who is it?” Newton calls, voice slightly strained from whatever ludicrous exercise he’s currently performing.</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann never gets a chance to answer him. Not when Pentecost is busy helping a figure from the car’s passenger side. A woman, half-hidden inside a luxurious, fur-collared coat. Black coat, black hair, snow-pale skin and blood red lips and she takes Pentecost’s arm in one hand, a cane in the other, and as she walks, stiffly but proudly, towards the door, Hermann feels his heart clench so hard he fears it might stop.</p>
<p class="p1">“No . . .” he breathes. Then he’s hurrying to the front door, throwing it open to the sound of Newton’s worried, “Herms?”</p>
<p class="p1">He doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not when his breath is stolen by the sight of Mako Mori, very much alive, walking up his driveway.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dude whaoholy shit.” Because now Newton has joined him at the door. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Hello Hermann,” says Mako, scarred lips smiling a very secret smile as her brother helps her up onto the porch. “Hello Newton. Apologies for the early hour, but I’ve a proposal for you both. If you’d like to hear it.”</p>
<p class="p1">And Pentecost just smirks, and says:</p>
<p class="p1">“Told you to ask me again. When all this was over.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well?” says Marshal Mori. “May we come in?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>I pledge allegiance to <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zC30BYR3CUk">everything now</a>.</em>
</p>
<p>Oh. Just one more thing...</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. … and all tomorrows.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <em>I'm psycho mate, my ideas <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82Xj_-_45p8">make your light bulbs break</a>.</em>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"><a></a>One more thing, eight months later.</p>
<p class="p1">The Breach alarm goes off at 1528 on a Thursday, startling Hermann out of the trance he’s been in for the last two and a half hours, up at his chalkboard, trying to work through his latest model on on the metabolic reactor exchange.</p>
<p class="p1">He’s down the ladder at the same time Newton spills through the door in a whirl of limbs, half the wiring from a Pons array draped around his neck like a scarf, hivedrone squeaking in distress from the nest it’s made of his hair.</p>
<p class="p1">“Is that the—?” Newton blurts, at the same time Hermann yells, “The chamber!”</p>
<p class="p1">They run to the partition screen, Hermann at the console, Newton flicking safeties and opening up the hatch containing the emergency kill switch. Huge and red and hard to throw, it will fill the Breach Chamber with what Hermann absolutely refuses to call “fakelite,” no matter how many times Newton insists on it.</p>
<p class="p1">Inside the chamber, behind four feet of reenforced steel and biocrete, a Breach has opened.</p>
<p class="p1">“Close it!” Newton is yelling. “Close it close it close it!”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh, <em>thank you</em> Newton and here I was about to ask it round for tea.” Hermann’s fingers fly across the console, through the holos.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dude!”</p>
<p class="p1">“I— I can’t.”</p>
<p class="p1">“What?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I can’t close it! The energy expenditure on the far side is . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. I could black out the entire planet and it wouldn’t be enough.”</p>
<p class="p1">“<em>What</em>? We’re killing it.” He goes to pull the kill switch. It will fill the chamber with a fast-setting bioengineered resin, stronger than graphene and almost impossible to remove.</p>
<p class="p1">“No!” Hermann throws out a hand to stop him. “It’s . . . it’s not opening further, and . . . and I don’t believe the far side is the Anteverse.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton inhales, sharp enough to be audible over the still-blaring alarm. “We did it?” he asks. “<em>You</em> did it? You found a way through? To another Earth?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Well,” says Hermann. “I think . . . I think, technically, <em>they</em> found <em>us</em>.”</p>
<p class="p1">They both look up. On the screen, a Breach no more than a meter in diameter has torn itself in the centre of the chamber. It hangs there for a moment, impossibly bright and crackling like a Tesla coil, and Hermann switches off the alarm.</p>
<p class="p1">Something rolls through the Breach.</p>
<p class="p1">“What—?”</p>
<p class="p1">It’s egg-shaped, organic-looking, and it topples end-over-end before finally settling, wobbling a little like it’s weighted at the bottom.</p>
<p class="p1">“Is that—?”</p>
<p class="p1">“—a <em>xenomorph</em> egg?”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton is, bizarrely, entirely correct; the object looks exactly like one of the horrible eggs from the <em>Alien</em> franchise.</p>
<p class="p1">“There’s . . . there’s no way suddenly <em>Alien</em> is real in another dimension,” Newton says. “ . . . Right?”</p>
<p class="p1">“I . . .” says Hermann, and realizes he has no idea.</p>
<p class="p1">When the X-shaped lips at the top of the egg suddenly split open, they both jump. Then laugh nervously at each other.</p>
<p class="p1">“Dude. If, like, a facehugger jumps out I will blow you.”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann is about to suggest Newton does not, in fact, entirely grasp the concept of betting when something does, indeed, emerge from the . . . egg. But it’s not a facehugger. It’s—</p>
<p class="p1">“A quadcopter?”</p>
<p class="p1">It is a small quadcopter. Entirely mechanical, and they both have the same idea at the same time:</p>
<p class="p1">“The egg is—”</p>
<p class="p1">“—cloned kaiju.”</p>
<p class="p1">“To get through the Throat,” Hermann agrees. To deliver a very, very man-made package.</p>
<p class="p1">The quadcopter flies roughly a meter off the ground as, behind it, the Breach appears to close.</p>
<p class="p1">“Did it—?“</p>
<p class="p1">“It’s still open.” Hermann can see the readings. “It’s just . . . microscopic. The level of control . . .” It takes his breath away. Who has <em>found</em> them?</p>
<p class="p1">And then the copter lights up, and a holo flickers to life in front of it.</p>
<p class="p1">“—<em>mean</em> they might ‘think it’s a bomb’? Why did— You <em>absolutely swore to me</em> you’d recognize your own idiotic—”</p>
<p class="p1">Hermann’s breath catches in his throat. Because there, projected into the middle of the chamber, is himself.</p>
<p class="p1">“Holy shit,” says Newton.</p>
<p class="p1">The . . . the <em>other Hermann</em> appears to notice he is live, and makes a little jerking motion as he clears his throat and collects himself and . . . Lord. <em>Hermann</em> does that. He’s never seen it from the outside before.</p>
<p class="p1">“By Jove,” he blurts. “Do I really look like that?”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton doesn’t get to answer, because it’s then the— it’s then Doctor Gottlieb says:</p>
<p class="p1">“Ah, hello? Is anyone there?” Then, apparently to someone they can’t see: “Yes, I’d suggest it is.”</p>
<p class="p1">Newton slams the button that lowers the video screen; it serves as a blast shield to the chamber and, when lowered, is a window. They know Doctor Gottlieb sees them, because he seems to do something at a console, and the little quadcopter shifts slightly, like it’s trying to get a better view, now it knows where it should be looking.</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh,” says Doctor Gottlieb. “Doctor Gottlieb, Doctor Geiszler. Excellent.” He does not look nearly as surprised to see them as they look to see him.</p>
<p class="p1">“Holy shit,” says Newton, into the comm.</p>
<p class="p1">“You— Give me that.” Hermann pushes him aside from the microphone, even as Doctor Gottlieb smirks a smirk that lets Hermann know that, yes, he <em>also</em> has a Newton who would’ve done exactly the same thing.</p>
<p class="p1">“Um. Hello.” Of course, now that Hermann actually has the comm, he realizes he has absolutely no idea what to say. “Um. Doctor Gottlieb.”</p>
<p class="p1">“Oh yeah, much better,” Newton grouses. Then seem to double-take, and peers harder at something inside the chamber.</p>
<p class="p1">“We found your signal,” Doctor Gottlieb says, still smirking. “You’re looking for alternate Earths, yes?”</p>
<p class="p1">“Um,” says Hermann. “Yes. Yes, correct. We . . . I assume you, also, uh—”</p>
<p class="p1">“Are looking for assistance with a little Anteverse problem? Yes. You assume correctly. And we’re here to help.”</p>
<p class="p1">And it’s about then that Newton’s eyes go extremely wide, and he blurts:</p>
<p class="p1">“Holy shit are <em>those my tattoos</em>?”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>... aa-aa-aa-and we're done!</p>
<p>Enormous thank you to everyone who came along on this nonsense with me, you utter legends. For DVD Bonus Content we have the <a href="https://orphaned.monster/dat/fst-inside-here-the-worst-things-come/">full soundtrack listing</a> (plus bonus songs!), as well as some extremely self-indulgent <a href="https://orphaned.monster/dat/the-worse-things/">authorial notes</a>.</p>
<p>And for those of you so inclined, I can be found on Tumblr at <a href="https://orphan-dat.tumblr.com/">orphan-dat</a>, or federated at @orphan@orphaned.monster.</p>
<p>💜</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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